


summer bones

by justaluckybug



Series: songbird [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Backstory, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ignores Season 3, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Miscommunication, POV Alternating, Pre-Canon, Trauma Recovery, bro they both need hugs tbh, working title: dumb boys refuse to talk abt their feelings for 6 months straight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28678620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaluckybug/pseuds/justaluckybug
Summary: In the summer of '86, Steve and Billy look to the future (with varying degrees of hope and despair), but the past isn't done with them yet.Or, you can't go home again, but sometimes home finds you.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: songbird [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535156
Comments: 56
Kudos: 101
Collections: Mad Wet Rat Boy and Fluffy haired Doofus





	1. Prologue – Billy

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my dears! This sequel is so long overdue, and I hate to say it, but it's still not finished... but! Trust me when I say it will not be abandoned! No matter how long it takes, I will finish it. I have it all planned out, it's just the actual writing that's taking longer than I anticipated. 
> 
> While Jack is (and always will be) present for Billy and co, this story digs into a different part of Billy's past. I was planning this fic even while I was writing songbird, so if you wondered why I hinted at Billy's non-canon backstory--this is why! I hope you'll still enjoy even though the topic shifts a bit. 
> 
> Also an important disclaimer: there will be a bit of Spanish in this fic and my attempts to write characters who are bilingual in Spanish and English. I'm basing these conversations on my friends IRL, but I am not a native Spanish speaker and the characters' culture isn't my own, so please let me know if there's anything I write that's incorrect, inaccurate, or offensive in anyway! 
> 
> (Also another P.S. but the rating is subject to change in later chapters ;))) )
> 
> Enjoy and let me know what you think!

Not to ask, _Did you_

_love her?_ and leave

the answer in the ground,

where everything difficult

is buried. …

To remember is to open

one door

after another

all along

the white corridor

to say _Yes_ when asked,

_Are you anything?_

_Did she love you?_

To go forward

is to surrender

the necklace of tears she gave me—

this failed body

with my name on it.

— from “The Bones of August” by Robin Ekiss

_I go out on my own_

_But you’re still in my bones._

_Angelina, I didn’t mean to let you down._

— “Angelina” by Distant Cousins

* * *

_Prologue – Billy_

* * *

“Mama?” Will whispered, standing on his tiptoes to peer over the lump of covers at Mama, who looked strange and scary in the dark. The beds in this house were so high, and old, and musty. They made noises and had monsters underneath. 

“Mama,” said Will, louder, when she didn’t wake up. The black circles on her face blinked open, and then she didn’t look like a ghost so much anymore. She just looked like Mama.

“ _Angelito,”_ she said, sleepy and low. “What’s wrong?”

Will curled his fingers into the blankets, wishing the bed was short like at home, so he could just climb in. “There’s monsters,” said Will, “in the walls.”

Mama hummed and nodded and reached for him, used her strong arms to pull him up and under the covers. Will pressed his face into the soft cotton of her pjs, which still smelled like home.

“It’s just the house,” Mama whispered into his hair, rubbing her hands down his back, up and down, over and over. “The bones are old, so they creak.” Like Ms. Jackie, Will thought, who lived next door and was a _hundred_ years old, or maybe _two_. She always said her bones creaked when it rained.

“Houses have bones?”

“Mmhm. _Son grandes y fuertes_ , to keep everything safe inside.”

Just then, the bed groaned again, but it was just cause of Lou, rolling over behind Mama, and snoring, sudden and loud in the quiet. It was so loud, it made Will giggle, and Mama too. Together, they pressed their laughter into the pillow until it went away.

When Will looked up again, the dark wasn’t so bad. Mama’s eyes were closed, but she was smiling.

“Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach,” she whispered, pulling him close. “And we’ll have an adventure.” She said that every summer, wherever they went. Lou said Mama had an itchy soul and they fixed it with trips to sunny places.

“I love you, baby,” said Mama, and Will tried to say it back, but sleep came and got him before he could.

* * *

On Sunday, May 11, 1986, Billy wakes up alone.

It’s not _that_ unusual. With school out for exams, and Steve still getting up at ass-o’clock to go to work, some days he lets Billy sleep.

Not often, though.

Most days, Steve comes to sit on the edge of the bed, in the curve Billy’s body makes. He brushes the tangled hair from Billy’s face, breathes fresh, minty breath all over him, and kisses his forehead, his eyebrow, his cheek. He whispers stupid shit like, _you’re so beautiful_ and _I’ll miss you all day_ and _go back to sleep, baby, I love you._

It’s just normal to at least _see_ Steve before Billy gets up for real. And on weekends, they do a lot more than that, Billy waking to Steve’s lips against his neck, the sleep-warm weight of him pressed along his back. And it’s not that he _needs_ that, or all the other stupid, _sappy_ shit. It’s just that _this_ is becoming, like, a fucking _thing_.

Five times in the last month, Billy’s woken up in the middle of the night to an empty bed. He used to wake to Steve’s gasping, or crying, but now it’s the quiet that does it, that has Billy sitting up at three in the morning, reaching for empty air.

When Billy goes to the investigate, every time, the house is lit up with yellow, the heat blasting even in April, in May. He finds Steve huddled in blankets on the couch, watching infomercials, his eyes red and wide and vacant. He used to reach for Billy when he woke up scared, but some nights, these past few weeks, he doesn’t.

Today, with Steve’s side of the bed rumpled but empty, it’s gotta be the first time Billy’s slept through a full night without noticing. And even though it means _nothing_ , really, it still feels like _shit_.

Too blurred with sleep to get pissed about it like he wants, Billy just sighs and fights his way out of the tangled sheets. At this hour, past eight, Steve might be asleep again on the couch, and Billy can curl around him there instead.

Except, when he finally makes his way to the living room, Steve’s nest of blankets is neat and folded, like he hasn’t been there at all. Growing hollower by the second, Billy heads towards the kitchen.

He hears Steve before he sees him.

“Yeah,” Steve’s saying, “That sounds nice.”

Billy expects deep smudges under Steve’s eyes and nervous fingers picking at skin, but when he finally gets a look at him, Steve is—fine. He’s sitting on the kitchen counter, still in the old t-shirt he went to sleep in, the phone receiver pressed to his ear. There are two bowls out on the counter and the cereal box just next to them, like he was making breakfast when the phone rang.

Steve looks _fine_ , rested, and when he spots Billy in the doorway, his face—breaks open. It’s not like he _lights up,_ or anything _dumb_ like that—just that—it’s like Steve wears his _King Steve_ mask all day, every day, except when he’s looking at Billy. Then he gives it a rest, let’s his eyes soften, and his smile turn goofy, and his cheeks dimple out.

“Uhuh,” Steve’s saying but he’s smiling now and the warmth of it seeps into his voice, colors it brighter. He reaches a hand towards Billy, wiggles his fingers that dumb way he does when he wants Billy to come closer. Normally, Billy just raises an eyebrow at him, because he’s not a dog that comes when he’s called. But it’s too fucking early still, and he didn’t get to wake to Steve’s low, sleep sounds—so, he just goes.

Steve opens his legs so Billy can press in close, hooks his ankles around the backs of Billy’s thighs, wraps an arm around him, too, trapping him. Billy tucks his nose into Steve’s neck, not really minding.

“Yeah,” Steve says again, “that’s nice.” Billy can feel the sound of Steve’s voice in his throat, how his skin buzzes with it. Steve shifts, tilting the phone away, and then Billy feels the press of lips against his temple.

“Morning,” Steve murmurs, so deep Billy feels it in his bones. He hums back, Steve’s easy softness reminding him how tired he is, how they should still be in bed.

“I know, Mom,” Steve’s saying. “No, I know. I know.”

Billy listens to him talk for a while, breathes him in. He still smells like sleep-sweat, like their sheets. It makes Billy want to taste him, so he does, licks a long stripe up his neck. 

Steve lets out a strangled laugh that he hides with a cough, hacking obnoxiously for the cover. “Sorry,” he says, “Something, uh, in my throat.” He pinches at Billy’s back in retaliation but only a little, so Billy ignores him, crowds closer and presses his nose to the dip in Steve’s collarbone.

Steve’s voice is so low, and Billy’s almost half-asleep again, so he barely hears it when Steve goes on,

“Yeah, I love you, too. Happy Mother’s Day.”

Oh, Billy thinks, that’s right.

* * *

_HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!_

Will wrote each letter big, big, big and _super_ straight, but it was hard cause he could barely see. Ms. Carla put her copy of the words right smack in the middle of the table, but Sophia kept pulling it closer and putting her whole arm on it.

He tried to tug it away from her, but she yanked it back. “Stop!” she shouted, _so_ loud.

“You stop!” he shouted back, even louder.

“Will,” said Ms. Carla and then she crouched down between them. “What’s the rule?”

“Inside voices,” said Will. “But she keeps taking it!”

“Sophia,” said Ms. Carla. “Why don’t we keep the paper in the middle so everyone can see?”

“But I can’t see if it’s in the middle!”

“How about we take turns then. Will, you can decorate your card with some of these stickers, while Sophia writes her message out, and when she’s done you can switch. How does that sound?”

 _It sounds dumb_ , Will thought, but he didn’t say it, cause _dumb_ was a word that got the time-out corner, and he _had_ to finish today.

“Okay,” said Will.

Sophia pulled the paper closer and sent him a stupid, mean smile.

“See?” said Ms. Carla. “Sharing is caring.”

Later, when Will’s card had five smileys and six hearts and all the letters that spelled out: _HAPPY MOTHERS DAY! I LOVE YOU,_ Ms. Carla came around again and said,

“That looks very nice, Will.”

“Thanks,” said Will, and then, since he was done, “Can I have another?”

“Another what?”

“Card.”

Ms. Carla frowned. “Everyone gets one card.”

And before Will could explain why he should get more _anyway_ , Anthony K. started crying like the big, giant baby he was. Ms. Carla went over to him, and then it was clean up time, and then story time, then nap time, then math, and Will got _no time_ to ask for another card before they had to line up to leave.

Today was Friday, and Mother’s Day was _Sunday_ , so there were _no days left_ —it wasn’t like he was gonna do stuff tomorrow—he didn’t even _have_ stickers at home.

So, when he saw Mama at the gate and she gave him a big _I missed you_ hug, instead of saying, _tell me a work story,_ like he did every day, he said, “Mama, sharing is caring.”

“Oh, really _,_ ” said Mama, “Is that what you learned today?”

“Yeah,” said Will. “You remember it, okay.”

Mama laughed and squeezed his hand. “I’ll remember.”

“Good.” And then, cause it was a long, _long_ walk to the bakery, he said, “Tell me a work story.”

So, Mama told him about a cake she made in the shape of a rocket ship, with big, red flames and stars and everything. She told him about a man who gave her five whole dollars to keep, just cause. She told him about a little girl who lost her tooth eating a cookie and then swallowed it.

“No way,” said Will. “She didn’t swallow it.” 

“Yes way,” said Mama. “ _Yo lo vi._ She came in with all her teeth, and she left with a big gap right here.” Mama pointed at her big front tooth, where Anthony K. was missing one, too.

“Where did it go?” Will asked.

“ _Su estómago,”_ said Mama and patted her tummy.

“How does the tooth fairy get it?”

“Magic,” said Mama.

They talked forever. Mama told him even more work stories, and Will was doing really good at keeping the special card a secret, even though he could feel in twisting his stomach up, making him squirm.

“ _Qué pasa_ ,” said Mama, “Do you have to pee?”

“No,” said Will, and then, because he couldn’t keep it in even _one more second_ , he said, “ _Tengo una sorpresa_.”

“ _¿Ah, sí?_ ” said Mama, and then she grinned at him, real big. “Vanilla or chocolate?” 

“ _Mamá_ ,” Will groaned. She thought she was funny, cause when Mama had a surprise _,_ it was always something from work, a cookie with too many chips or a muffin from the morning that nobody wanted. So, when Mama said, _tengo una sorpresa,_ Will always said, _vanilla or chocolate—_ chocolate was best, but both were good.

“ _William,”_ said Mama, mocking him. “ _¿Qué sorpresa?_ _¿Para mí?_ ”

“Maybe,” Will said. “But, you gotta remember, okay—because Ms. Carla doesn’t like me, and Sophia hogged the paper the whole time! So, I only made _one_ , okay?

“ _Oh, ya veo_ ,” said Mama, and then she stopped walking and scooped him up in a big hug—even bigger than _I missed you,_ more like, _te quiero._

“ _No pasa nada_ ,” Mama said and kissed him loud and wet on the cheek.

“Gross, _mamá_ ,” said Will, wiping the back of his hand over his face to get the kiss mark off.

“Mamas aren’t gross. You better not’ve put that on the surprise.”

“I didn’t,” said Will. “It’s got hearts.”

“How many?”

“ _Seis_.”

“ _Perfecto,”_ said Mama, and then she swung their hands between them and told him about the dinner she was planning, the chicken he liked best.

* * *

“Hey,” Steve says, lowly, “You falling asleep on me?”

“Mm,” Billy grunts back, so he’ll shut up and keep being warm and smelling good.

“I gotta hang up the phone,” says Steve.

“Okay,” Billy says without budging.

Steve laughs, and then there’s a clang like he lets the phone fall and hang from its cord. He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders and pulls him even closer, if that’s possible, squeezes him too tight to be comfortable.

“Jesus, okay,” Billy gives in finally, struggling away from Steve’s grip. Steve jumps down to deal with the phone, so Billy slumps over his empty spot on the counter, nudges at one of the bowls Steve put out.

“Making something, master chef?”

“Kellogg’s,” says Steve, coming back a like a magnet two seconds later, draping himself along Billy’s spine. “With strawberries.”

“Oh, shit,” says Billy.

Steve snorts into his hair. “Only the best for you, baby.”

Normally, Billy would keep the joke up, push him about writing a cookbook, getting a real Julia Child special all for himself. Then he’d shove the bowls back into the cabinet and start on their real breakfast, eggs maybe, or pancakes.

But he’s getting sick or something, must be—cause it just seems like _a lot_. He doesn’t want to deal with pans or chopping shit or even putting the bowls away. His arms feel heavy. He wants to go back to bed.

He doesn’t realize how far he’s slumped over the counter until Steve’s warmth disappears.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, and then he knocks twice— _tap-tap—_ on the counter beside Billy’s folded arms. Billy turns his head to look at him, finds his big eyes all concerned, worry lines screwing up his forehead. And it’s just not how he should look on a Sunday morning, with the spring light from the window making him golden, honey-warm.

“It’s fine,” says Billy but Steve doesn’t move, doesn’t speak till Billy knocks back— _tap-tap_. The lines in Steve’s skin soften, but his eyes stay anxious. He rubs a hand up and down Billy’s back, squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m kinda craving cereal,” Steve says, that slow way he does when he’s trying to be smooth, trying to trick Billy into something. “Let me make breakfast today, okay?”

Billy thinks about all the _things_ he’d have to get out to make omelets—the eggs and the cheese and the toast, the butter and jam, the ketchup Steve likes because he’s a heathen—thinks about his heavy arms, and says, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Steve echoes. He rubs his thumb into the base of Billy’s neck, where his muscles always bunch. “Go lie down, I’ll bring it in. And put something good on.”

So, Billy goes and lies down and puts on Scooby Doo, cause Steve’s, like, _eight_ when it comes to TV shows. Billy really couldn’t care less, but Steve makes these _dumb_ faces when they catch the monsters, actually _laughs_ when the say shit like _zoinks,_ which makes it, whatever, _something good—_ better than fucking _Thunder Cats_ , anyway.

“Nice,” Steve says when he comes in. He hands Billy his cereal, and adds, “This is a good one.”

“Man, there’s something wrong with you,” Billy says, or tries to around his first bite of frosted flakes.

“Don’t get milk on my _blankets_ , dude,” says Steve, which Billy _knows_ —it’s why they mostly eat in the kitchen, cause Steve’s got, like, a complex about the blankets and how _soft_ they are and how _if I have to wash them all the time they’ll get all gross and scratchy, asshole._

Billy makes a whole show of shoving them over to Steve’s side of the couch, and out of the _spill zone,_ but Steve just hovers by Billy’s side.

“What,” says Billy.

Steve shrugs, and then says, “Move up.” When Billy just stares at him, he rolls his eyes and pushes at Billy’s shoulder with his free hand. “Move,” he says again.

“This is _where I_ _sit_ ,” says Billy, lost and also not in the mood for Steve’s general weirdness right now. He’s _tired_ and _pissed_ and maybe _sick._

“Not today,” says Steve, making _no sense_ , and then he adds, “Hold this,” and shoves his cereal bowl into Billy’s face.

“What the fuck,” Billy says and holds both bowls away from the blankets as Steve squeezes in between Billy’s back and the arm of the couch. He squirms for a while and then hooks his arms under Billy’s, blows Billy’s hair out of his mouth where it’s gotten all caught, and says, “Gimme,” wiggling his fingers in the direction of the cereal.

“What—” Billy starts, and then it just doesn’t seem worth it to finish, honestly, with Steve already settled, and also pretty warm. He pulled Billy’s old Dodgers sweatshirt on at some point and it bunches up at his shoulders, the perfect place for Billy’s head.

So, whatever, Billy just gives Steve his bowl and leans back against him, lets him figure out how he’s gonna eat like this.

He manages, barely, but it doesn’t take them long to finish, spoons scraping up the last of the sugary milk minutes later. Billy sets both their bowls on the coffee table and then twists around to press his face into Steve’s chest. He smells like their fabric softener, fresh and sweet, which means he’s been stealing Billy’s clothes and washing them again.

“Stop taking my shit,” Billy mumbles into Steve’s neck.

“Sure, baby,” Steve murmurs back.

Billy doesn’t think he falls asleep, but when he opens his eyes again and shifts to look, there’s a new cartoon on TV, no mystery machine in sight.

“Time‘s it?” he says.

Steve hands are heavy and warm on his back. “Only ten,” he says back.

Early still, then. Enough to be lazy, to stay curled on the couch and take advantage of Steve’s sleepy warmth, the rise and fall of his chest. His legs must be asleep by now, tangled with Billy’s, but he doesn’t try to shift them, so Billy doesn’t either. He presses his face into the soft, faded fabric of Steve’s sweatshirt and doesn’t move again—until a song starts up from the TV, slow and familiar. It tugs at something old and forgotten in Billy—not a memory, more like the shadow of one.

When he turns to look, he doesn’t recognize the cartoon playing—a montage of sleeping animals, a lullaby playing over them. It’s only when it settles on a tiny elephant with too-big ears that Billy remembers. He watches Dumbo’s mom sway him gently with her trunk, watches them grasp at each other as Dumbo’s pulled away, until they can’t reach anymore.

Billy doesn’t realize he’s crying until Steve swipes his knuckles over Billy’s cheek, tightens his arm around Billy’s back. He doesn’t say anything, though, so Billy doesn’t either. They’re quiet the whole rest of the movie.

After the elephants are reunited and their train disappears into the sunset, Steve trails the pads of his fingers over Billy’s temple, nudges a flyaway curl behind his ear.

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “But, if you wanted—I mean, I could just listen.”

Which is— _nice,_ and all, the awkward, earnest stutter of Steve’s voice making Billy’s chest fill up the warm way it always does, when Steve’s around. But there’s nothing to say, really, nothing new to share that Billy hasn’t already lived with and buried and shut away, years and years ago.

So, he just presses his face into worn cotton of Steve’s sweatshirt again and doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t think about elephants or songs or mothers or cards. He breathes slow and deep and thinks about graduating in ten days, thinks about getting in his car and leaving Hawkins for good. Thinks about Steve on a beach far away, finally warm.

It might be hours later before he finally lifts his face to press his lips to Steve’s stubbly chin, his cheek, his temple.

“I love you,” says Billy. He waits for the skin to crinkle by Steve eyes, and then he kisses there too.

“I love you, baby,” Steve murmurs, his hands a solid, steady weight on Billy’s back.

Billy doesn’t think about the other people in the world who’ve called him _baby._ He doesn’t.

_End Prologue_


	2. April

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Realizes some things, panics, and makes a friend.

PART I – STEVE

_April_

He doesn’t realize with the letter, is the thing.

No one in the whole world and least of all Hawkins would claim Steve Harrington is the sharpest tool in the shed, but there’s probably a few bleeding-heart teachers from high school that might’ve sworn up and down that he’d’ve figured this one out sooner than he did.

But if there’s anything Steve knows about himself it’s that he’s an idiot. Not just _rash_ and _foolhardy_ , like his dad always says, but honest-to-god, empty-between-the-ears _stupid_. He’s got the grades and exam scores to prove it, and _this_ , now, too—the fact that it takes him till _April_ to clue-in. Three whole months after Billy spread each page of his acceptance letter out on the kitchen table so he could read it out loud, slowly, for Steve to hear. Somehow, in that moment, and all the weeks after, things like _room and board_ , and _move-in day,_ and _on-campus housing_ just didn’t register. Steve knew the University of California was _in_ _California_ —he’s not _that_ slow. But it just—it doesn’t hit him, _really_ , what it means for Billy, what it means for _him_ , until April.

Billy’s holed up at home studying for some final exam, even though he’s already _been_ accepted and is _graduating_ in like a month, because he’s huge _nerd_ like that. But it means Steve’s banished to Jonathan’s for a few hours at least because Billy _can’t concentrate with your pretty face right there, now can I?_

So, whatever, so Steve’s at Jonathan’s doing nothing, _literally_ , the _definition_ of nothing, lying on the floor of Jonathan’s bedroom, staring at the ceiling fan set to high, and listening to whatever shitty album Jon’s picked out.

He’s thinking about Billy and what he’s doing at home, focused, probably chewing on a pen cap with his eyebrows all squinched together. Steve’s thinking about Billy’s ink-stained fingers, his pretty lips, his sugar-sweet mouth—which reminds Steve of the cookies Billy pressed into his hands as he left, saying, _made you something,_ that shy, embarrassed way he gets sometimes, like he still isn’t sure Steve’ll like it.

Steve digs the cookies out of his jacket pocket. There’s only three, but he still gives one to Jon—even though they’re, like, the best _ever_ and he could eat five thousand of them—cause he’s _gracious_ like that.

“Better appreciate it,” Steve says with his mouth full. Jonathan rolls his eyes until he takes his first bite. Then he makes a kind of sound Steve’s pretty sure Nancy wouldn’t want Steve hearing and eats the rest in reverent silence.

Five minutes later, they’re chugging glasses of milk in the kitchen, when Jonathan wipes his mouth off on his sleeve and says, “Damn, you have those every day?”

Steve just grins, which makes Jon swear again and mutter, “Lucky, dude.”

“The luckiest,” says Steve, wriggling his eyebrows so Jonathan knows he means more than just the cookies. Jon rolls his eyes again and scoffs, his ears pinking as he says,

“Gross, man,” and then, “Whatever. You’ll be worse off in fall when you gotta, like, quit cold turkey.”

“Quit, what?” says Steve, busy draining the last of his milk. Jon doesn’t answer right away, and when Steve looks up at him, he’s staring at the table, pushing old crumbs into a pile and avoiding Steve’s gaze.

Jon shrugs. “You know, the cooking,” he says, before he coughs kind of awkward and adds, “And, like, all of it, I guess.”

“All of it?” Steve echoes before his brain finally catches up to his ears. He takes in Jonathan’s sympathetic eyes, the guilty slump of his shoulders. “Oh,” he says.

A normal person probably would’ve figured it out on their own, but, for Steve, it takes Jonathan saying, _it’s all gonna be gone soon_ , for Steve to think, _oh fuck, oh god, I’m going to have to live without it._ Not just Billy’s cookies but his laugh, his perfect hands, his rough morning voice, his socks all over the goddamn floor, his smile, and the way he makes everything warmer and better and safe.

“Steve?” says Jonathan, and then he says other things, Steve thinks, about how fine it’ll be, how good he and Billy are together, how often they can talk on the phone, and how far away August is from now, really.

Steve hears it all through water, the panic-rush of blood in his ears. Time doesn’t move right after that, or at least, _Steve_ doesn’t move, stays put at the kitchen table and lets Jonathan talk for however long it takes for the window above the sink to turn orange then grey then black.

At some point, Joyce comes home and says things like _dinner_ and _welcome_ and _stay_. But Jonathan—who’s Steve’s best friend, who’s leaving in August, too, for the East Coast with Nancy—knows enough about Steve’s fucked-up brain to get him home, to Billy, when he’s like this. Jon makes some excuse and leads Steve outside, into the cold, breezy night and then into his car.

Steve blinks a few times and then he’s at the kitchen table again, except this one is a thick, oak wood instead of linoleum, and Jonathan’s nowhere in sight. The heavy _thunk_ of the front door makes Steve flinch, makes him turn toward the sound just in time to see Billy coming in from the hall. He takes Steve in with wide, blue eyes and keeps walking until he’s close enough for Steve to press his face into Billy’s ribs. A hand comes up to cup the back of Steve’s head.

“What happened?” Billy says.

The sound of his voice settles Steve’s heartbeat at least halfway back to normal, enough for the shame to set it. Cause, like, Jesus, all it takes for Steve to lose his mind is some off-hand comment from Jon? He knew he was pathetic, but this is a level Steve thought he’d left behind somewhere back in December.

“Nothing,” he says, but his voice breaks halfway through, so he has to try again. “Nothing, really, I just…” He rests his chin on Billy’s stomach so he can look up and meet his worried gaze. “I need you,” Steve says, cause it’s true, but it’s also one of those things that never fails to make Billy’s eyes darken.

Billy thumbs at Steve’s cheek and stares, checking for something in Steve’s face—it feels like a test, a little, one Steve’s pretty sure he’s gonna fail. “Yeah?” Billy says eventually, his voice low and raspy.

Steve lets himself melt into it, forces the jittery flutters of panic all under his skin to morph into the other kind of nerves he still gets, right before Billy takes him apart. He nods and presses his face further into Billy’s shirt.

“Please,” he whispers, even as the shame in his gut twists sideways into guilt. He knows in the tiny, rational corner of his mind that this isn’t gonna help right now, that he’s only asking cause it’ll give him an excuse to be shaky and quiet. Maybe Billy won’t push the issue if Steve makes him feel good enough to forget it.

“Okay,” says Billy, letting him get his way just like Steve knew he would. Billy steps back to put some space between them, keeps a hand on Steve’s shoulder to stop him from swaying forward. He nods at the doorway. “Go on upstairs.”

Steve’s mind clicks over at the familiar words, switches to an easy autopilot—and even if he’ll feels like shit later, it feels _so good_ right now, to let everything real and serious and awful fade into the background. It’s not a choice, after all—he _has_ to. There are only simple things to think about now. Get upstairs. Clothes off. On the bed. Wait for Billy. Be good.

Steve sits on his heels at the food of the bed and breathes. He sits and breathes, sits and breathes. Eventually the door opens. Billy comes in, smiles, pleased, cause Steve’s being good—as far as Billy knows, anyway.

The whole thing is tainted, though, cause Steve’s not being honest, is keeping quiet about the swirl of _badbadbad_ in his gut, which is against the rules. Steve’s word sits heavy in his mouth, just behind his teeth. If he was _really_ good, he would say it, but that’s the secret Billy hasn’t figured out yet, as smart as he is. Steve only _tries_ at being good, but he tries at lots of things. It doesn’t make them true.

“With me, sweetheart?” says Billy. He’s standing in front of Steve, all his clothes still on, cupping Steve’s face in his big, warm hands.

Steve nods but doesn’t speak, making Billy hum and run the pad of his thumb over Steve’s lips. “You’re being quiet today.” Steve nods and Billy nods back, swiping both thumbs over Steve’s jaw, his cheeks, his temples. “That’s okay, baby. You remember what to say if you want to stop?” Steve nods again. “Tell me,” says Billy.

“Pineapple,” says Steve in a whisper, so his voice doesn’t crack.

“That’s right,” says Billy, still swiping his thumbs over Steve’s face. “That’s good, baby. You’re so good for me. Look at you, waiting here, all ready for me.” Steve flushes but doesn’t turn away. Billy likes it when Steve looks at him. “You’re going to stay still,” Billy goes on, “Right here, till I tell you to move.” Steve doesn’t nod then, because it’s not a question. Steve’s going to stay still.

Billy moves away and tugs his t-shirt over his head, takes his time to fold it carefully on the dresser—it’s the only time he’s ever neat, when he’s making Steve wait for it. He takes his jeans off next, then his underwear, his socks, each one folded perfectly while Steve sits and breathes and barely blinks. Billy doesn’t look at him once.

When he finally turns around and sees Steve just as he was, he smiles again, that special, slow smile he only gets when they’re doing this. It’s like a shot of liquid gold right into Steve’s heart, warming him from the inside out. When Steve’s good, Billy smiles like he’s proud of him.

Later, when they’re over-warm and sweat-slick, Billy still coming down from it and panting into Steve’s shoulder, saying all the right things— _you’re beautiful, baby, love you so much—_ Billy whispers, softly, sleep-thick, like he doesn’t even know Steve can hear him, “Always so good for me.”

And Steve can’t help it then—he bursts into tears. Not the slow kind, not the quiet way he perfected as a kid. This is ugly, unstoppable, shakes his whole chest, and so sudden Steve’s too surprised to muffle it, so it’s loud, too

Billy’s wide awake in an instant. He pulls Steve into his arms, runs his big, warm hands over Steve’s skin like he’s checking for blood. Steve can barely hear with his clogged-up ears, but he thinks Billy’s babbling, which is weird cause he’s usually so good at this part, handling Steve’s freak outs.

“What is it, baby, are you hurt? Can you talk, can you tell me what’s wrong?”

And Steve _wants_ to, wants to give Billy everything, always, but especially when he’s like this, slow and muddled from the weight of Billy’s hands holding him down. Steve wants to tell him, to say, _don’t leave me, please, I’ll be good forever, I’ll try so hard, just stay here, just keep me, just take me with you._

But even through the haze of his fucked-out brain, Steve knows that it’s _selfish_ and _bad_ and _bullshit_ to want that, to make this college thing about _him_. Billy’s wanted this his whole life, probably, and he’s barely known Steve for a _year_. Why the fuck would Billy want to stay in this backwater, nowhere, supernatural shithole, this place where he almost _died_ , or take _any_ part of it with him to his new, shiny life?

So even though it feels like knives in Steve’s throat, like bricks in his gut, he just shudders, presses his wet face into Billy’s neck, and doesn’t say a word.

“You’re okay, sweetheart,” Billy murmurs, “I’m right here, you were so good, you did so well. I love you, I’m right here, you’re okay.”

It usually helps, those sweet things, but it doesn’t this time. It only makes Steve think about how bad he’s been, and reminds him of the awful nights, back in the fall, when he’d wake up crying and Billy wasn’t there to hold him, reminds him how soon he’ll have to live like that again.

He’s gotten so spoiled, so greedy. He can’t sleep without Billy’s warmth beside him, can barely remember how to eat without Billy making him breakfast every morning, sneaking snacks into his briefcase, and having dinner ready for him at night. And, what’s he supposed to _do_ without Billy to come home to, to watch Miami Vice with and smoke on the roof and drive for hours doing nothing at all.

However the fuck Steve’s supposed to go back to life before Billy, he’s got to figure it out _now_. Because if August comes, and things are like _this_ , with Billy at the center of his whole world, and Steve just has to go back to _none_ of him, to _nothing_ , he’ll—he’ll _never_ make it. It’ll be _so_ _bad_ , and he’s not strong enough, and—and he just won’t _make it_.

“Please tell me, baby,” Billy says softly, later, when Steve’s eyes are too puffed-up to make new tears and his throat is raw and sticking. “You gotta tell me what went wrong, so we don’t do it again.”

Steve almost wants to laugh—as if all this was cause of something as simple as bad sex. As if sex with Billy could ever be bad. As if anything in Steve’s life is ever simple.

He shifts to press his lips to the pulse in Billy’s neck. “Not your fault,” he says, his voice coming out rough and strange from all the crying and being quiet so long.

Billy’s arms tighten around Steve for a moment before he pulls back, just enough to coax Steve into looking up at him. Billy’s eyes are dark in the dim light, worried but beautiful. “Tell me,” he says again, not a demand, more like a plea.

Steve shifts closer so Billy can’t see him, knowing he must look like total shit right now. “’s just intense,” Steve mutters, willing his voice to sound tired and wiped but not hurt.

“What is?” Billy asks, letting Steve crowd in again, pulling him closer.

Steve shrugs as much as he can squished against Billy’s chest. “Just—all of it. How much I love you.”

Billy presses a kiss into Steve’s hair, and then another. “I love you, too, Stevie. You know that. I love you so much, baby, _just_ as much.”

 _Then don’t leave_ , Steve thinks. He presses his forehead into Billy’s chest and thinks, _don’t leave, don’t leave, don’t leave_ , as hard as he can, on the off chance that Billy can hear him with his freaky, mind-reading powers.

But Billy doesn’t say, _of course, sweetheart, I’ll stay with you forever_ , the way Steve wants him to. He just holds him like he does every night and hums that song, the Spanish one, the one he thinks Steve doesn’t know.

“ _Cuando el mundo al girar, como un rojo globo que al cielo va.”_

Once Steve realizes that, in less than four months, his only friends over the age of fifteen will be miles away, on either side of the country, he spends about forty-eight hours panicking. Then he pushes it down, down, down and starts to plan.

Being trapped in Hawkins is bad enough, but it’ll be life-threateningly terrible if he’s got no one to call on weekends when The Party is busy with nerd stuff in Mike’s basement. The only way Steve will be able to survive once Billy and Jon and Nancy leave is if he makes friends with people like him. Kids with no aspirations and no brains, who peaked in high school and are destined to spend the rest of their days in dead-end jobs, until they die in the same place they were born. _Those_ are Steve’s people. He just needs to find them.

It’s easier said than done, though, now that he’s graduated. How are you even supposed to _meet_ people without being forced to spend forty hours a week together? Steve has no idea, so his planning kind of stalls for a while. He probably would’ve given up, if it weren’t for the ice cream place at the mall, Free Scoop Fridays, and Robin.

Steve gets sucked into the first few trips with The Party because Billy switches shifts at the garage in town (something to do with a bet he lost). Suddenly, Steve’s got nothing better to do on Friday nights than drive a bunch of teens through the April sleet to Star Court Mall.

It’s the third Friday in a row that Steve’s sitting in his regular booth (he’s got a fucking _regular_ _booth_ now), staring into his free scoop and feeling pretty sorry for himself when someone says, “So, are you, like, a babysitter now or something?”

Steve looks up to find a vaguely familiar girl dressed in the ridiculous Scoops Ahoy uniform. “What?” he says intelligently. His social skills have suffered, like, dramatically since he started spitting his time between idiot teenagers and Billy.

The girl rolls her eyes and slumps into the opposite side of the booth. “You’ve been here every Friday for, like, a month. I thought Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington would have more important things to do than hang around Scoops Ahoy with a bunch of _hooligans_.” She glances at the table three booths down, where The Party are shooting the wrappers of paper straws at each other and generally making a _ruckus_.

“Hooligans?” says Steve, still too surprised by sudden conversation to come up with anything better.

The girl grins and then says seriously, “That’s what Betty and I call them.” She nods towards the counter, where the sole other employee—an ancient old woman with crooked fingers who calls Steve _sonny_ —is organizing the register and shooting glares at the kids every ten seconds.

When Steve turns back to the girl, she’s still smiling but her eyes are calculating. “You have no idea who I am, do you,” she says after a moment. Steve feels his eyes widening.

“Uh, no, I. You’re, um,” Steve stumbles, wishing he could just, for once, have a regular brain that remembered regular things, like the names of people he’s sure he’s known for years.

“Robin,” says Robin, taking pity on him. “Robin Buckley? We’ve had, like, twenty classes together since kindergarten.”

“Right, no, I know,” says Steve, even though he hadn’t really remembered that. “I’m just, not good with names.”

Robin nods. “Guess you wouldn’t need to be, when everybody knows who _you_ are.” Despite the words, her tone isn’t harsh, more genuinely understanding. She eyes the kids for a beat longer and then looks back at him, curious. “But really. What are you doing here all the time?”

Steve shrugs, decides there’s no harm in being honest to total strangers. “You pretty much guessed it—baby-sitting.”

“No shit?” says Robin, which makes Steve smile on reflex. She sounds like Billy.

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, more driving them here and waiting on them to leave, but yeah.”

“Wow.” Robin shakes her head in mock pity. “On a Friday night. How the mighty have fallen.”

Steve grins wider, nearly giddy suddenly. He forgot how nice it is to just _talk_ to someone new, someone who doesn’t already know all his faults, who he can be Steve “The Hair” Harrington with, without feeling like a fraud.

“What about you?” he asks. “This where you want to be on a Friday night?”

“Obviously,” says Robin. “Serving up scoops and smiles,” she adds with a too-cheery grin, tipping her sailor hat at him. “That’s my passion.”

Steve laughs, and for once, barely notices the time going by. That night, he learns that Robin’s got jobs at both Scoops and the video store in town, to save up for college. She’s definitely not _his people_ —she knows _five_ languages, won some kind of state-wide math contests, and wants to be an _aerospace engineer_ (“It means rocket scientists,” Robin says at Steve’s bewildered look)—but she’s funny and she doesn’t take his shit, and best of all, she seems to think _he_ ’s worth getting to know too.

Steve spends the next few Fridays sitting at the counter instead of the back booth, talking to Robin and having more fun than he has in a long time. When Billy finally gets his normal shift back, Steve’s almost _disappointed_. He loves nights with Billy, of course he does, but it just felt like Steve was finally, sort of, remembering how to be a person on his own again. So even though he _knows_ from the very first moment the thought pops into his head that it’s wrong, that he should just be honest, that Billy wouldn’t even _mind_ —he lies.

When Steve can no longer drive The Party to the mall, they decide it’s not worth the bike ride in the still-frequently wet days and find something else to do on Friday nights. But Steve tells Billy that the kids have guilted him into being their Friday chaperone for good, that he kind of likes the trips with them anyway. Billy grumbles about Steve’s _soft spot for those fucking nerds_ but doesn’t put up much of a fight about it. It’s not like they don’t see each other every day anyway.

So, Steve gets to have a few hours a week making a friend that’s _his_ —a friend that doesn’t plan to leave Hawkins for another year at least. And, yeah, okay, he’s _lying_ about it, but it’s not _hurting_ anybody. No one even has to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing good ever comes from secrets, Steve, smh. 
> 
> I sort of fell in love with brotp Robin and Steve while writing Star Stuff, so I hope you like them as much as I do, because they're here to stay! Also apologies for the "quadruple space" lol - I promise there are sexy times ahead, but I didn't want the first one in this series to be when Steve's not in such a good place. 
> 
> Also, in case this wasn't too clear in the last fic, it's always been my headcanon (I think from other fics I've read) that Steve is dyslexic and maybe also has ADHD. I just wanted to mention it because Steve's complex about his "broken brain" is explored more in this fic, and I want to make sure it's clear that that is not at all true! Those are some negative self-thoughts he has, but he'll learn that he's perfect just as he is. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and let me know what you think!


	3. May

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I hope you like this update, and I promise the chapters will get longer as we go along, but we're still getting into it! Thanks for reading!

_May_

April drags on in rainy days, but May goes by in a blink. Before Steve has enough time to truly process it, Billy goes from trying on his graduation robe in their bedroom to wearing it across the stage at Hawkins High one sunny Saturday morning.

Steve sits on a flimsy foldout chair wedged between Max and Will, and watches Billy try not to smile as he gets his diploma. Later, after the hugs and photos with Nancy and Jon, Steve drags Billy into the janitor closet by the gym to congratulate him _properly_.

Billy kisses him after, licks the taste of himself from Steve’s mouth and then presses his face to Steve’s neck the way he does when he’s overwhelmed and doesn’t want Steve to know. Steve lets him hide, feels his own heart clench and grow just knowing he can make Billy feel that way—loved that much.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs into Billy’s curls, tucking him closer against his chest. He knows it’s easier for Billy to hear _girly shit_ when Steve can’t see his face. “You’re the smartest person I know,” he goes on. “You’re gonna do such awesome shit in college, like. Write books and win _every_ award and, like, break records and stuff.”

Steve’s eyes sting thinking about it, all the great things Billy’s gonna do without him, but he blinks them away and chokes down the selfish pleas crawling up his throat— _please, please don’t leave me here, I’ll be so lost without you, I’ll die._

Billy huffs against Steve’s skin and nips at the edge of his jaw before pulling away. “Break records, huh,” he says with sparkling eyes. _God_ , he’s so beautiful.

“Yup,” says Steve, leaning to press a kiss to Billy’s cheek—he can’t help it. The sun brings little freckles out on Billy’s nose and just under his eyes. Steve’s obsessed with them, admits it willingly—they deserve to be kissed ten thousand times a day.

“I think there are a few records we can start breaking already,” Billy says, wiggling his eyebrows like a doofus, and Steve laughs, shoves Billy away only to draw him in a second later.

“You’re _such_ an idiot,” he says, even as he lets Billy kiss up his neck and make him squirm. “I’m trying to give you, like, a _real_ compliment and you just—”

“Oh, is _that_ what you’re doing—

“Yeah, asshole, I’m—”

A sudden knock on the door makes them both freeze. Steve feels Billy flinch in his arms, and he tugs him closer on instinct even as his own breath stutters and his vision goes spotty with adrenaline.

“Steve,” says Nancy. She’s muffled by the door, but Steve would know her voice anywhere. He relaxes slightly, even as the humiliation of being caught by his ex in their old hookup spot makes him want to die where he stands. “The kids were looking for you guys,” Nance goes on, awkwardly. “I figured I’d let you know, so they don’t, um. _Find you first_. I’m going to head back, now, and you should probably, uh. Make your way back soon too.”

Billy starts to shake in Steve’s arms as Nancy’s footsteps disappear down the hall. For one awful moment, Steve thinks maybe he’s having some kind of flashback or something, that he’s _crying_ , but then Steve hears the muffled laughter Billy’s hiding in Steve’s shoulder.

“ _Fucker_ ,” he says, pushing Billy away.

“Your fucking face,” Billy gets out between gasps of laughter. “It’s so red, oh my god.”

“I hate you,” says Steve, turning his back to Billy so he can try to sort out his clothes again and look presentable.

“No, you don’t,” says Billy, wrapping his arms around Steve’s waist and kiss the spot behind Steve’s ear that makes shiver. Steve leans into it for a few more seconds before he pulls away.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees, opening the door before Billy can say anything else cute or stupid enough to make Steve want to kiss him.

Steve finds out Robin likes girls when they’re three-sheets-to-the-wind _drunk_ in Bobby McMann’s bathroom on the last Saturday in May.

It’s sort of an accident they’re together at all, or at least, it’s not how Steve thought his night would go. Ever since he’s become, like, a _working adult_ , he mostly spends his Saturdays having lazy and/or wild sex with Billy and eating homemade desserts in bed. It’s kind of the best, and he doesn’t miss shitty house parties one bit.

But late Friday night, Billy’s boss from the garage calls to beg him to drive to Indianapolis to pick up some special part for a client’s car, said he’d pay Billy overtime _and_ let him have an extra day off. Since Saturdays are no longer the only day Steve gets to see Billy, there’s no real counter argument he can make to get Billy to stay. So, he leaves Saturday morning, at the _ass-crack of dawn_ , _Jesus, Harrington, you get up this early every day?_ Steve broods about it till the afternoon, before driving into town, just for something to do.

He’s about to head home when he spots Robin’s car parked outside the video rental place and remembers her Saturday shift. It takes Steve a few awkward minutes of fake browsing before he finds her stocking shelves. When she spots him, she grins, wide and pleased. She yells at the nerdy-looking guy behind the counter that she’s taking her break and follows Steve outside.

Bumming a cigarette, she stretches out on the roof of Steve’s car and asks, “What brings _King Steve_ to this lowly establishment on a Saturday night?”

“You love that I never have plans, don’t you?” says Steve instead of answering.

“It’s just so _satisfying_ ,” Robin admits, pausing to blow an impressive smoke ring before adding, “I mean, in high school you were, like, the _it_ guy, but now you’re just as sad and lonely as the bottom feeders.”

It’s truer than Steve likes, and also too much of a reminder of what life will be like in the fall, when every Saturday will look like this one—Steve driving aimlessly around with no one to call.

He tries to shake the thought, asking, “So, are you a _bottom feeder_ too, or do you actually have plans?”

Robin _actually_ does. Her friend Cindy Wilson—who Steve should remember because they all had history together (Steve doesn’t)—has an on-again, off-again thing with Bobby McMann. They’re in an _on-again_ phase, and Cindy wants Robin to come to Bobby’s party tonight to help her decide whether Bobby’s into Judy Gramm or not.

“It’s the dumbest shit,” Robin says. “But Bobby’s parents are loaded, and he’s got the keys to their liquor cabinet, so it’s the price you have to pay for the good stuff, you know?” Steve _doesn’t_ know, really, because _he’s_ usually the one with the keys and the good stuff.

But anyway, Robin’s already going with Shelah Farmington, but Shelah’s bringing her boyfriend, and Robin _hates_ being the only single one at these parties, and, does Steve want to come to keep her company?

“I’m not single,” Steve says, before his brain can catch up with his mouth. He freezes as soon as he hears it, racing to come up with a backstory for the fake girlfriend he’s going to have to make up when Robin asks. But she doesn’t.

She just shrugs and says, “It’s not a date, dingus. Do you want to come or not? Unless you think your girlfriend will get mad.”

It _might_ be something Billy will get mad about—he always _says_ he doesn’t mind when Steve hangs out with Nancy, but Steve thinks he does—but Billy will be gone till late anyway. He won’t even know.

“It’s cool,” says Steve. “I’ll go.”

“Not Sammy, _Tammy_ ,” says Robin loudly, her voice echoing around the tiny bathroom.

“Who?” Steve asks and then laughs at the look of outrage on Robin’s face, spilling half his drink by accident. 

“ _Tam-my Thomp-son_ ,” Robin repeats slowly, poking at Steve’s arm with each syllable. “She sat next to you in history class, how can you not remember?”

“I don’t know,” says Steve, trying to wring the drink on his t-shirt back into the cup. It really _is_ good stuff. “I guess I just didn’t pay attention in that class.”

“Well, _duh_ ,” Robin scoffs. “It was _pretty_ _clear_ you didn’t pay attention to the _class_. I _thought_ you would’ve paid attention to the hottest girl in our grade mooning over you all the time, but, whatever.”

Then it’s Steve’s turn to scoff. “Okay, whoever this _Sammy_ person is, she obviously isn’t the hottest girl in our grade, or I _would_ know her.”

“ _Tammy_!” Robin shouts, shoving him until he tips over for real. Steve laughs into the bathmat. “God, you are such a douchebag,” Robin sighs. “She was obsessed with you all year, and you don’t even know her name.”

“What does she look like?” Steve asks, shifting to get comfortable on the ground.

Robin sighs again, but less put-out this time, more dreamy. “She’s got this, like, dark hair—it’s really long, and shiny. And her eyes are like, that blue that’s kind of green but also grey, you know? She’s tall and wears a lot of pink, and she’s got this heart locket that she plays with when she’s distracted.”

Steve stares up at Robin as she talks, thinks he recognizes the sort of misty look on her face. He’s just drunk enough to forget why it might be weird to say, “Wow, it sounds like maybe _you’re_ the one obsessed with _her_.” 

Robin flushes, sudden and bright, and pulls her knees to her chest. “No, I’m _not_ ,” she snaps, defensive. “That’s just—that’s just how girls _talk_ about each other, because we’re not bogged down with internalized worries about sounding _unmanly_.”

Steve thinks about all those nights last summer, when he would lie awake wondering if Billy would show up, picturing his beat-up hands and his bloodied curls and the heat of his skin, trying to convince himself he was only _worried,_ for _his_ _friend,_ and not anything else. 

“It’s okay, you know,” says Steve, the words coming out before he can think of all the reasons he should just shut up. “I mean, it would be, if you _did_ —if you _were_. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Robin leans over to peer at him, her cheeks still pink even as she eyes him suspiciously. “What would you know,” she says, softly, accusing and curious at the same time.

“I _know_ ,” says Steve, just as soft, his heart picking up wildly as he lets her look him in the eye and _see_.

“No way,” she says after a moment. Then, stunned, “ _Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington_.”

Steve laughs at the way she says it, like it’s the title of some movie, or legend. “That’s not really who I am, you know,” he admits, since they’re sharing secrets and all. “Not for a while, I guess.”

“I guess _so_ ,” Robin agrees, and then whole minutes go by, or maybe hours, with the two of them just sitting in silence. It’s not heavy, though, just shared.

Steve’s almost nodding off when Robin pokes at him and says, “Let’s blow this joint, King Steve.” He heaves himself up and after her, high-fives a bunch of guys he doesn’t know, and then follows Robin out into the night.

He either falls asleep on the ride to his place, or Bobby McMann lives a lot closer than Steve realized, because he only blinks a few times before Robin’s pulling up to the end of his driveway.

“Your palace awaits, my liege,” she drawls in a strange accent, like Dustin does during that nerdy game.

Steve snorts as he gets out, shutting the passenger side door as quietly as he can. “You’re so weird,” he says.

“Says you,” Robin shoots back, before her eyes slips past him and up to the house. “Uh, oh,” she whispers. “Someone’s waiting up.”

Steve turns to follow her gaze, an ugly pit opening up in his stomach when he spots the lit-up windows. He thought he could beat Billy home, but it looks like he didn’t.

“Good luck with that,” says Robin, probably thinking his parents are waiting to chew him out. “See you Friday,” she adds, and then she’s gone.

Steve watches her drive away for only a moment before the cold and the dark force him inside. The creak of the heavy front door closing behind him feels louder than ever. He toes off his shoes and tries to settle the tangle of nerves in his stomach—he hasn’t done anything wrong, really—it just feels that way.

Steve finds Billy in the living room, watching reruns with the volume down low. He doesn’t turn when the floorboards creak under Steve’s feet, so he’s either asleep or pissed. As softly as he can, Steve makes his way around to the other side of the sofa, doesn’t risk a glance at Billy until he sinks into the cushions.

Billy’s gaze stays fixed on the TV, but he’s awake. Pissed, then. The knot in Steve’s stomach grows three sizes and twists.

“Hey,” Steve says softly. “When did you get back?”

“An hour ago,” says Billy. He still won’t look at Steve, which is worse than if he was glaring.

“Sorry I was—”

“It’s one in the morning,” Billy interrupts.

“I know,” says Steve, “I thought—”

“Your car was here,” Billy says, like he didn’t even hear, his voice rough the way Steve recognizes by now.

“Billy—”

“Your car was here, but the lights were off. You never turn _any_ lights off when you’re alone, but the _whole fucking house_ was dark. And there wasn’t a note—you didn’t tell me you had plans.” When Billy finally looks at him, Steve aches to reach out, to brush his fingertips over Billy’s wet eyelashes, hold him close, and tell Billy that he’s _safe_ and he’s _so, so sorry_ for worrying him.

But Steve keeps his hands to himself, because he knows better, and says as steady and soft as he can, “I didn’t have plans.” Billy scoffs but Steve presses on. “I _didn’t_ , not this morning when you left. It was last minute. I thought I’d be home before you got back.”

“Your car—” Billy starts again.

“I got a ride.”

“From who?”

Steve doesn’t know why he hesitates, why he let this thing that’s not a _thing_ become such a secret. “A friend,” he says finally, like an idiot.

Billy’s forehead crinkles in confusion, because Steve tells him everything and he’s never vague. “ _Who_?” Billy presses with more concern now.

“Robin Buckley,” says Steve, cursing every past version of himself who thought it was a good idea lie about knowing her before. “She was, uh, in my grade, we had history together.”

Billy eyes Steve like he’s grown another head. “I know who Robin Buckley is, Steve, Hawkins High has, like, three hundred people.”

“Right.” Steve knew that. He’s possibly still drunk, and also shaky from the awful feeling he gets when Billy’s mad at him.

“I didn’t know you guys were friends,” says Billy, and—god, it’s _worse_ now, because Billy sounds—he sounds _hurt_ , or like. Like Steve doesn’t trust him, and it’s not that, _at all_ , and Steve’s fucking this up, like everything.

“We’re not _friends_ , really,” Steve hurries to fix it somehow. “I just ran into her, in town, and she mentioned this party. I’ve just been trying to—I want to _make_ more friends, you know? So, I’m not, like, alone, _later_.”

“ _Later_ ,” Billy echoes, like it’s a word he doesn’t know. He keeps staring at Steve like he doesn’t know him either.

“When you leave,” Steve explains, his voicing cracking on the last word, because he’s _tired_ and Billy’s mad at him—and soon he won’t be around at all, and it _sucks_.

“You still think I’m gonna leave you?” Billy rasps, like it’s the most ridiculous thing in the world, instead of a literal fact.

“I know you’ll call and stuff.” Steve’s not explaining this right. His head is starting to pound. He can’t tell if Billy’s still mad. “I know we’re not gonna—break up—” They haven’t talked about it yet, actually, but Steve can’t even _think_ about that—“But it’s not like we’re gonna be with each other all the time. I need other people to hang out with. You get that, right?”

“Right,” Billy says flatly. He’s still looking at Steve that awful way, like he’s never seen him before. It makes Steve’s eyes sting, makes his hands start to shake. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong anymore, why he can’t make Billy _understand_.

“You need people to hang out with,” Billy repeats. “Here. In Hawkins.”

“Robin’s staying in town for at least a year,” Steve explains. Is that what Billy doesn’t get? Maybe he knows Robin’s super smart and thought she was going to college somewhere. “She’s saving up money for school.”

Billy looks and looks at Steve for what feels like forever, then clears his throat and says, “How long have you been—thinking about that? That you’ll be here, alone.”

Steve picks at the stray skin around his fingernail and only hesitates for a second before saying honestly, “Weeks, I guess.”

Billy eyes fall shut like the thought hurts him, and Steve _hates_ that, hates to put his stupid fears on Billy, who’s got so much pain to deal with already. Even though Steve’s really not that drunk anymore, his eyes fill up with tears and spill over, watching Billy sit with his worry.

After endless seconds, Billy opens his eyes again, finds Steve’s fingers in the blankets, and tugs. “Come ‘ere,” he says. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever moved faster, falling into Billy chest hard enough that it hurts. “I’m sorry, baby,” Billy adds, tucking Steve closer, under his chin.

Steve wants to argue, to say, _don’t be_ _sorry_ , and, _it’s not your fault I have no friends_ , but he also doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. He just wants to stay here, in Billy’s arms, and never fight or go anywhere else again.

“I love you,” says Billy, when Steve’s almost asleep. “So much.”

Steve presses closer, says, “I love you, too,” and tries to pretend it’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Billy and Steve, simultaneously: I hate this and I'm miserable, but I won't tell the love of my life bc that would make him sad :( 
> 
> DUMB!
> 
> Anyway. Rereading this, I realized that, out of context, there are a lot of like red flags in their relationship that make it seem kind of controlling, e.g. Steve thinking he needs Billy to be okay with his plans, etc. I hope it's clear that, while they are very codependent, it's more like... their respective traumas make them irrationally clinging? You know what I mean. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	4. June, pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Robin go on a mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you like this update! This is gearing up to my fav part of this story :) 
> 
> Let me know what you think!

_June, pt. I_

In the second week of June, 1986, summer hits Hawkins like a red-hot frying pan to the face. Within three days, Steve goes from his usual four-blankets-and-a-duvet routine to sweating several gallons a night, trying to sleep as far away from Billy’s overwarm body as possible while still making sure he’s _there_. 

But sleep and Steve had a falling out around mid-May anyway, and lying awake sweating is still better than lying awake shivering in Steve’s book, so it’s really not so bad. Besides—Steve _loves_ summer. He loves sunglasses and fresh lemonade and washing the beamer in the driveway with the radio cranked up as loud as it’ll go. He loves the smell of sunscreen on Billy’s skin and the tan that turns him honey-brown in minutes, seems like. Plus, with Billy’s loving encouragements of _don’t be such a goddamn girl, I’m right_ _here,_ Steve even manages to dip his feet into the pool and watch the late evening light glance off the water without shaking.

But the best part about June by far is that it brings Billy’s birthday, and the best part of Billy’s birthday is that it marks one year since Steve used every ounce of bravery in his stupid, idiot heart to kiss Billy for the first time.

It’s not an _anniversary_ , or anything, _really_ , it’s not. When Steve kissed Billy on the roof of his house at three o’clock in the morning, it didn’t send fireworks into the sky. It didn’t solve Billy’s problems or quiet Steve’s fears. It didn’t make them _boyfriends_. All it did was send Steve into a panic spiral that lasted two full days before Billy showed up needing fixing again, tracking mud in the hall and eating Steve’s food and watching his TV like _normal_. But the vast space between them on the sofa got _that_ much smaller—barely an inch and still enough to make the back of Steve’s neck flush, to make him smother a smile in his pillow that night and make him _just_ brave enough to do it again the next week and the week after that.

So, it’s not an anniversary but it’s still— _something_. Something good and big and too bright to look at. Something that deserves to be celebrated. Billy doesn’t _do_ birthdays, Steve knows that, but he can just _deal_ with Steve wanting to _give_ him things and look at him, all day, and touch his sun warm skin, maybe, if Billy lets him.

Steve wracked his brain, on and off, for months, over what to get Billy, cause his present at Christmas seemed to go over pretty well, which was nice or whatever—watching Billy run his fingers over the edges of the boombox like it’s something precious sends flashes of heat down Steve’s spine, even now. But it means there’s a lot of pressure to get it right again, to see that dumb shock on Billy’s face, like it’s such a big deal, that Steve knows him so well. 

He first got the idea about the book in April, when Billy spent hours and hours poring over the last of his essays. Late at night, when Steve couldn’t sleep, Billy read bits of things—not his own writing, never that, but lines of something long and steady, the low hum of Billy’s voice so serious that, even though Steve couldn’t always wrap his mind around what it really _meant_ , he knew it was _important_. These words were _real_ to Billy, worthy of his full attention. So Steve listened hard and even scratched half-remembered quotes on notepads at work so he wouldn’t forget.

But by the time Steve realized he’d need to know more than that, Billy had finished his finals and given the book back. All Steve had was his messy notes, and it’s not like he could take them to the library and ask the lady there to help him. She and Billy were _friends_ , like they talked, like _gossiped_. Billy brought her lemon bars _every_ two weeks (and threatened Steve with dish duty for life if he ever told a soul). She would tell Billy in an instant that _the sweet young Harrington boy_ (which Billy liked to call Steve when he was being bitch) was asking after books he had no business reading.

Anyway, Steve was out of ideas is thing, of how to find the book, without spilling the beans to a stranger or explaining himself to The Party (which he’s _not_ gonna do—they’d _mock_ him). He thought about asking Max but he’s not sure how _she’d_ know any better than him, and she’d probably tell Billy just for laughs. It’s not till Free Scoop Fridays and Robin that things finally fall into place.

That’s why, two weeks before The Big Day, Steve tells Billy that Robin needs help fixing shit in her house. It’s nine in the morning and pushing 100, and Billy’s already in the pool, flopped sideways over Steve’s blow-up lounger. He’s gone brown like a fucking ginger snap, his overlong hair plastered to his cheeks and his shoulders littered with freckles. It takes every ounce of willpower Steve has to keep from dragging him out of the bright, cool water and licking the drops from his skin.

“It’ll be a few hours maybe. Sure you don’t mind?” Steve checks absently, stalling pretty much, just wanting to look a little more at the curve of Billy’s back and the borrowed trunks hung low around his hips.

Billy spins the lounger lazily back to face Steve and smirks when he catches whatever dumb look Steve’s got in his eyes. He raises an eyebrow and licks his lips that way he _knows_ drives Steve up a fucking wall. “ _I’m_ sure,” he says, all jokes. “Are _you_?”

Steve’s rolls his eyes, just pretense. His neck is burning even though he’s still hiding in the shade of the house. “Yeah,” he scrapes out, and then shakes his head, makes himself mean it. “Yeah, I’ll be back as soon as I can. Okay?”

“Sure, baby,” says Billy, like an asshole, and stretches out to lie fully on the lounger, the whole long length of him glistening in the sun like a fucking dream. “Have fun.”

So, Steve takes the world’s fastest shower (a cold one, but only cause it’s _hot_ , okay?) and breaks a few laws to make it to Robin’s in less than ten minutes, already wondering what time he’ll get back. Robin’s sitting on the curb when he pulls, so it’s not long before they’re on the freeway, heading three towns over, just to be safe.

“So, are you gonna tell me where we’re going,” Robin says casually, “or am I just supposed to trust you’re not kidnapping me for ransom.”

“Like I could even get a ransom for you,” Steve says instead of answering. Robin punches him in the arm, sudden and hard enough to bruise. “Je _sus_ ,” says Steve, “Cause an accident much.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Like you’d _let_ anything happen to this car.” Steve shrugs but doesn’t respond, cause, like, that’s fair. A minute or two passes with just the top 40s playing on the radio before Robin flicks his arm right on the growing bruise, once, twice, three times before Steve finally breaks.

“You’re the worst,” he says, leaning towards the window, trying in vain to get out of her reach. “I need to get a present for someone, okay?” He keeps his gaze out the windshield, but he can tell Robin’s frowning when she says,

“You promised me lunch.”

“And you’ll get it. But I need your help first.”

“Figures,” she mutters, sighing and making a big show out of being _disappointed._ “Should’ve known I’d have to work for it.”

Steve shrugs and gets about thirty seconds of enjoying the new Madonna song before Robin pipes up again, “Why do you even need me? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly _like other girls_ ,” she adds, like it’s a joke even though it’s kind of true. “If you need to get a present for, like, your girlfriend, you should’ve asked Nancy.”

Steve tries not to pause too long, tries to pretend like it’s no big deal when he says, “I don’t have a girlfriend.” But his heart still kicks into overdrive, cause Robin knows he’s _not single_ , he told her that. Plus, there was that moment in Bobby’s bathroom. So, she’ll _know_ now, like, _really_ know. Steve’s ears are thumping with blood, loud enough he can’t hear the music anymore, as he waits and waits for Robin to _ask_. He can feel her eyes on the side of his face like glare from the sun.

But a minute goes by and then five, then ten. Robin doesn’t ask. She switches gears to bug him about which store they’re going to, and why they have to drive so far, and how, if this takes too long, he’s gonna owe her a lot more than a McDLT. But she doesn’t ask.

Forty-five minutes later, they finally pull up to a small, almost invisible storefront tucked between a 5 & 10 and a Pizza King. The sign above the front window has clearly seen better days, the faded paint just legible enough to read: _Moonbeam Books_.

Steve’s rounding the car as Robin gets out and, once she notices the destination, she catches his gaze and quirks an eyebrow in question. Steve just shrugs in reply, feeling twitchy with nerves.

The thing is, Steve could have easily come alone and found what he was looking for, with just the scraps of paper in his pocket and a smile. No one’s gonna question a stranger passing through just buying a _book_ , of all things. It’s just that Steve feels like there’s a glowing neon sign stuck to the front of his shirt that says, THIS IDIOT CAN’T READ, and another on his back that says, AND HE’S IN LOVE WITH A BOY.

Not only is Robin a super nerd who’s probably read every book in this store and then some, she’s also a _girl_. Girls like to read. So, no one’s gonna look at Steve buying this smart person book and think, _who’s he buying it for?_ They’re gonna see Steve-and-Robin and think, _how nice of him to get his girl a gift, ain’t young love sweet?_

He can’t explain all that to Robin, though, as cool as she is, as much as they might have _in common_. It’s not the kind of thing you say out loud. So, Steve takes the easy way out. “I just need to find this book, okay? And I know you read a shit ton, so you probably know it.”

Steve doesn’t give Robin a chance to reply, just heads on through the shop door. A clanging bell announces their presence to the man behind the counter, who looks exactly like the kind of person you’d expect to be running a tiny, musty bookstore in Nowhere, Indiana. His cardigan is dark orange and lumpy, and his mustache looks a few weeks past needing a trim. But his eyes behind his thick, square glasses are kind, and when he sees them, he smiles, laying the book he’s reading gently down on the counter.

“Good morning,” he says, his voice lower than Steve was expecting. “Can I help you find something?”

Robin smiles sweetly back and opens her mouth to respond, but Steve catches her arm before she can and answers quickly, “No, thank you. We’re just looking for now.”

“Of course,” says the man politely. “You let me know if you need anything,” he adds before picking up his book again.

With his grip on her arm, Steve hurries Robin through the shelves until they’re far enough away to have some privacy. He busies himself retrieving the crumpled notes from his pocket, feeling Robin’s curious gaze burning a hole in his forehead. He rubs his palm over the paper, trying to smooth it out, but the sweat on his hands just smudges the ink, making it even more illegible.

“Okay,” Steve starts, still avoiding Robin’s stare. “So, I don’t know if this’ll help, probably not, but it’s the only thing I have, and I tried to write as much as I remember. It’s probably a wild goose chase, or whatever, I just figured—”

“Steve,” Robin interrupts gently, and something about the kindness in her voice, and the kindness of the man out front, makes Steve feel worse. It’s like his skin is made of glass, and everybody in the whole world can take one look at him and know exactly what’s inside.

After a moment, then two of Steve just staring at his own hands instead of looking up, Robin lets it go. She takes the notes from him and makes her own attempt to even out the creases. She frowns at it for a while, twists it a few times side to side, and then says, slowly, “Are you sure this is English?” She makes sure Steve’s looking this time before she smirks a little, “And not Hieroglyphics?”

“Shut up,” says Steve, his gut unclenching a little at the joke. It’s just Robin, he tells himself. It’s just Robin, it’s just a bookshop, it’s just a book.

“Honestly, I’m gonna need you to decode this if I’m gonna help you,” Robin adds, handing the notes back. Their fingers brush as she does, and it calms Steve a little more. Robin is his friend and she’s here with him, and the man out front is wearing a _cardigan_. It’s gonna be fine.

“Okay,” says Steve, feeling oddly like his voice isn’t his own. “Um, okay, so these aren’t _real_ quotes because I wrote them down from, like, memory, but, um. This one says, _Laughing in the water at sun rise, I thought of how my dear friend was on his way and I was happy._ Um, and this one is, _The terrible doubt of appearances is answered by my friends and when the one I love travels with me and sits a long time with me, holding my hand. Then I am charged with wisdom and I am silent.”_ There’re more lines than that, but something about the quietness here, with the books all around, and Robin looking at him—it feels like if he says even one more word, the jig will be up. He’ll look up at Robin and she’ll say, _Billy Hargrove?,_ the same way Nancy did back in January, like it’s the worst thing in the world.

Steve rubs the corner of the paper between his fingers until it wears away to nothing. When that’s done, he makes himself think _Robin likes girls_ three times back-to-back, and then looks up. 

Robin is smiling, soft and patient, like she’s got nothing better to do than wait for Steve to find his marbles and be a regular person in a regular bookstore instead of a nutcase. “That was beautiful,” she says, weirdly sincere. “Is it poetry?”

Steve clears his throat twice before answering. “Yeah. That’s the hard part, though, because I don’t remember the, uh, author? Or the title or anything.”

“Hm,” says Robin, considering. “Well, I don’t recognize it, but I bet the owner would,” she nods towards the front of the store. Steve doesn’t know why it freaks him out so much, really, he doesn’t. But the idea of going up to that guy and reading these same words that Billy read to _him_ , while they were naked and glowing in the low light of their bedroom, feels absolutely impossible.

Robin is a genius though, so she just looks through Steve’s glass skin and says, “I’ve got a good memory for this stuff. I’ll say exactly what you just said and ask him for you. Okay?”

Steve breathes for the first time since they walked in. “Okay. Thanks.”

Robin just flicks his bruised arm again, before she takes the paper and heads confidently back to the front of the shop. Steve follows a beat behind.

“Hi,” says Robin, once they’ve reached the counter, her voice about three octaves higher than usual. “I was wondering if you could help me.” The man nods encouragingly, setting his book down again. Robin goes on, “I’m looking for a book of poetry, but I can’t remember the poet’s name or the book title. I remember a few lines of it, though, and I thought maybe you’d know it?”

“I’m happy to help if I can,” says the man. “I’ve read a few books of poetry myself,” he adds, eyes twinkling.

Robin laughs an odd, cheerful sound Steve’s never heard before and says, “Great. So, it’s paraphrased, but one line I remember is: _The terrible doubt of appearances is answered by my friends and when the one I love travels with me and sits a long time with me, holding my hand.”_

Steve feels his eyebrows raise on their own, as Robin repeats the quote word-for-word, after just hearing him say it once. A different kind of shame flushes his skin then, a familiar, ugly anger he gets around Nancy and even Billy sometimes. How easy life must be with a brain that isn’t broken. But he only lets the thought settle for a second or two before he shakes it—it’s not fair to be mad anyway. It’s not Robin or Nancy or Billy’s fault that they’re smart. It’s just the luck of the draw, the same luck that made Steve born to beautiful, wealthy parents and Billy to that monster. 

“‘Of the Terrible Doubt of Appearances’” says the man, forcing Steve to focus on the matter at hand. “A wonderful poem and a wonderful poet. Come, I’ll show you,” he adds, and then lifts a flap of the counter and heads down one of the narrow aisles. Robin follows, turning to glance at Steve with excited enthusiasm, which he tries to return.

It’s not a large store, so it’s not long before the man stops mid-row and tugs a book off one of the shelves. He smiles at the cover before handing it to Robin, like a gift. “Walt Whitman,” he says, his voice warm with affection, like he knows this guy personally. “America’s greatest poet. I’m glad young people are still reading him. He’s got a lot to say.” The man taps at the book now in Robin’s hands. “This is _Calamus_ ,” he says. “Not his most famous work, but too often overlooked, in my opinion. Some beautiful words in here.”

The moment drags on a little longer, but it’s a good one, as if the shared admiration they all have for this one, old book makes them more than strangers, like friends. Eventually, the man smiles again and asks, “Was there anything else you were looking for?”

Robin hugs the book to her chest and uses the movement to glace at Steve from the corner of her eye, the question clear. Somehow knowing this man likes the same poetry Billy does gives Steve enough confidence to speak up. “Yeah,” he says roughly, clearing his throat before going on, “Do you have a foreign language section?”

On the way back to Hawkins, Steve buys Robin _two_ McDLTs, a large fry, and a vanilla shake. The AC’s busted inside, so they eat their lunch sprawled on a lone patch of grass by the parking lot. 

Robin makes her way through her giant meal with a dedication that Steve admires, even if he can’t quite match it right now. He picks at his own burger, gut still churning with leftover adrenaline. Robin must notice, cause she pauses between bites to glance at him and ask, “Successful trip, right?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Thanks for coming. Seriously, I probably wouldn’t have found it without you.”

Robin shakes her head even as she continues to stuff her face. “You would have,” she says.

Steve shrugs and doesn’t bother to argue, even though she’s wrong. He would’ve chickened out the minute he saw that bookstore guy. There was something knowing in his eyes the whole time they were there, like he knew Robin was just a cover, that the book was really for Steve.

Ten minutes later, Robin’s still working on her shake, and Steve’s looking for shapes in the clouds, thinking about Billy at home, if he’s showered yet or if he let the sun dry the pool water from his skin. Afternoon light makes Billy doubly beautiful, maybe even _triple_. He likes to nap on the deck, and Steve spends endless stretches of time just watching the shadows move across his face, marveling at this boy, this boy in _Steve’s_ yard and _Steve’s_ clothes, his to look at and his to touch. Talk about _luck_. 

“Steve!” says Robin, suddenly, just before something cold hits the side of his face.

“What the fuck,” says Steve, sitting up to find Robin standing over him. “Did you throw your milkshake at me?”

“I said your name like ten times. I thought maybe you’d sent yourself into an anxiety coma.”

“That’s not a real thing, right?” Steve asks as he gets up. Robin shrugs back but she’s grinning like she knows Steve’s gonna be worried about _that_ now for weeks. If anyone could send themselves into a coma from sheer anxiety, it would be Steve.

As they walk back towards the car, Robin says, “So, can I read it?” as if they’ve been talking the whole time.

“Read, what?”

Robin stares at him hard like he’s a doofus. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the book we’ve been on a mission for all morning.”

“A _mission_ ,” Steve echoes. “You sound like Dustin.”

“ _Steve_.”

“It’s a _gift_ ,” says Steve, “I don’t want it to get all,” he gestures how books get, “ _bent_ , or whatever.”

Robin rolls her eyes and leans her hip against the driver’s side door so Steve can’t get in. “I’m not going to _bend_ it. I just want to read that one—you can’t just tease me with a poem and not let me read the whole thing!” Steve crosses his arms, preparing to wait her out, but he forgot how goddamn _annoying_ she can be. “ _Come on_ ,” she begs. “Are you seriously going to make me go to the _public library_ in the middle of a _heat wave_ to read _one_ poem, when you have it right there, _inches_ away?”

They stand there for a while, but it is _seriously_ hot and Steve’s starting to burn, and also Billy’s waiting at home for him, so in the end it’s not that hard of a call. “ _Fine_ ,” he says and Robin grins, delighted, probably mostly at winning. “But just the one.”

“Just the one,” Robin echoes, finally moving out of the way to let Steve reach through the car window and snag the book. She makes grabby hands at him for it, but he holds it back.

“I’ll find it. The ‘Doubt’ one?” he checks.

Robin shakes her head. “Nah, I got the gist of that one already. Everything is uncertain until you spend time with the people you love, blah blah.” Steve blinks, annoyed again at Robin’s stupid, giant brain. “I want to hear what happens in the sunrise one.”

Steve tries to remember which one she means and then stills once he does. “Oh, um. You don’t want to read that one. It’s—boring,” he tries, not very convincing if Robin’s raised eyebrows are anything to go by.

“Oh, really?” says Robin.

“Mhm.”

“So, you’re just in the habit of _memorizing_ lines from boring poems.”

“Yep,” says Steve, flipping through the index to try to find the ‘Doubt’ one and distract her.

“Steve.”

“Hmm?” Robin’s quiet after that, to make Steve look at her, he knows, but it still works. When he glances back up, her arms are crossed the way Steve knows means he’s not going to win this one.

“It’s the sunrise one, or I stand in front of the car and barricade you here in the McDonalds parking lot.”

“I’d just run you over,” says Steve. But also he wouldn’t, and every minute they spend here arguing is a minute Steve wastes away from Billy.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, dragging it out. “But you have to read it in the car. It’s hot as fucking balls out here, and I was supposed to be home already.”

Robin nods, grinning, smug as anything. It takes Steve longer than he’d like to find the right page. Once he does, he makes them both get in and only hands the book over once he’s gunning it out of the lot.

Before Robin can start reading, Steve adds, “And no talking about it afterwards, okay? This isn’t some book club. We’re just gonna listen to music and forget the whole thing.” Robin just hums absently back, clearly ignoring him.

Steve tries to pay attention to the road, to the traffic and the radio, tries to picture Billy in swim trunks again.

But if he has a favorite poem, it’s the one Robin’s reading right now, and the words of it circle in his head like a song whether he wants them to or not. Steve made Billy read it, again and again, late at night, just to hear his neat, city voice murmur, _for_ _the one I love most lay sleeping by me_. Steve tries to think of those moments—his head on Billy’s chest, the buzz of the poem in his lungs—rather than Robin beside him, getting a peak at this secret thing that almost no one knows.

He can tell when she finishes, because she quietly closes the book the sets it down gently on the seat. For once, she listens, not trying to talk about it, but Steve can feel the weight of her eyes on the side of his face, and it’s actually unbearable.

“What,” he snaps finally, maybe two minutes later.

“Nothing!” she says. Steve can hear her grin without looking. “You said not to talk. So, here I am. Just sitting. Just thinking.”

“Thinking _what_ ,” Steve says. Maybe it’s better just to get the mocking over and done with now, while he has the excuse to look at the road rather than at her stupid face.

“I guess…” she starts, more serious that Steve thought she would be. When he risks a glance at her, she’s staring out her own window, thoughtful. It’s a few seconds before she settles on, “I guess I’m a little jealous.”

“ _Jealous_?” That what, that Steve isn’t single? Of all the things to make Robin wish she had someone, Steve wouldn’t have thought _this_ —an hours long errand—would do it.

Robin looks over at him with one her patented _you’re an idiot_ looks, different from the one Billy has, but still somehow conveying the same frustrated affection. “Steve,” she says. “You drove an hour and a half to some random town just to look for a book you didn’t even know the name of. You took _notes_ on it. You even asked for _help_ ,” she adds, gesturing at herself, “which I’m sure _killed_ you. I don’t know,” she goes on. “I guess I wish I had somebody that would do all that for me.”

“Oh,” says Steve, feeling his face pink up against his will. He knows he goes overboard with this kind of stuff. He spends too much time on things and _gives_ people too much. He knows it’s overwhelming, _suffocating_. No one’s ever made it sound like a good thing before.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” says Robin, sincerity gone as soon as it came. “I’m still not into you, King Steve.”

“Well, good,” he says back. “I’m taken.”

It’s after one by the time Steve gets home, and he has to force himself not to sprint from the car when he finally makes it, because that would be crazy. That’s how he feels, though, _crazy_ , knowing Billy’s at home, free as a bird, without him.

Billy’s been picking up more shifts at the garage lately, plus he works three days a week as a lifeguard at the pool (saving up for school, Steve guess, but they don’t talk about it). They still see each other every night, and Steve wouldn’t trade those quiet hours for anything. But there’s something about _lunch_ together and the bright, sunny hours when Steve hasn’t crashed yet, when laughing comes so easy. It’s the only time these days Steve can _breathe_ with his whole chest, when he lets himself forget about August and believe that maybe, somehow, he can have this forever.

He called Billy from a payphone outside the McDonalds (while Robin made kissy noises at him from the parking lot), so Billy wouldn’t worry, but also to make sure he was _expecting_ Steve and not going to the store or sleeping or whatever.

Still, it’s a nice kind of surprise when Steve yanks the front door open to find Billy already there, leaning all _casual like_ against stair banister, the hall light on despite the afternoon sun pouring in from the windows. At the sight of him, all of Steve’s stress at being out in the world melts away, clean and quick, like April snow.

He drops the bag he brought with him (full of his dad’s never-used tools, for show, and now two brand-new books hidden in newspaper) and toes out of his tennis shoes. He thinks about playing it cool, mocking Billy for waiting for him at the door like a puppy. But it doesn’t seem worth it to pretend, just now, when so much of the day was wasted. So, Steve just stumbles forward, nearly tripping on the welcome mat in his hurry, but it doesn’t matter, because Billy’s hurrying, too, to meet him.

Billy’s arms curl easy around Steve’s waist, and Steve presses every inch of himself closer, closer, starving for the heat of Billy’s skin despite how fucking hot it is outside. He smells like chlorine and sweat and suntan lotion, like the best parts of summer combined.

Billy pulls back eventually, to say something maybe, but Steve doesn’t give him a chance. He pushes Billy backwards instead till his back collides with the wall, and Steve can press closer still. He takes a page out of Billy’s usual playbook, licking at the dip of Billy’s neck, wanting to taste the sunshine on his browned skin.

“Jesus,” Billy pants, curling his fingers through Steve’s hair, keeping him there. “Miss me?” he adds, and Steve can tell he’s trying to make fun, but it doesn’t really work with his voice all low and gasping.

“Yeah,” says Steve, cause it’s true and cause Billy _likes_ it when Steve likes it, when he’s begging for it. It must work, cause Billy uses the hand tangled in Steve’s hair to tug him up, tilt him just right, until Billy’s lips find his.

Kissing’s one of those things Steve never really _got_ , before. He always thought it was like red wine or Brussels sprouts or exercise—no one _really_ liked it all that much, they just agreed to pretend they did, to seem grown up and put together. Even those first few times with Billy, it was only okay. Steve _wanted_ to do it, of course, but mostly cause that’s what you _did_ , when someone made you feel the way Billy made him feel, like his skin was on fire, like his heart was too small.

It took a few tries for them to get good at it, to know how they fit together, but once they did— _shit_. Steve _got_ it, then. It was the heat of it, and the taste of Billy’s mouth, the quiet, desperate sounds he made, and knowing no one in the world got to do this with Billy but _Steve_.

After a minute or five or twenty, Billy pulls back, and Steve leans in to follow him before he can stop himself. Billy huffs a laugh, resting his chin on Steve’s forehead as he catches his breath.

A beat passes, and then, into the warm, damp air between them, he says, “You taste like ketchup,” which for some reason sends Steve into helpless peals of laughter. He tries to smother it in Billy’s shoulder, because the moment felt quiet before and he wants it to stay that way, but it’s no use. Billy snorts into his hair, which sets him off again, until he’s shaking uncontrollably in the circle of Billy’s arms, his hands pressed to his face to hide his tears.

“Just saying,” Billy adds, warmly confused, like he has no idea how he managed to get Steve into such a state of delirious joy but wants it to last.

After he catches his breath, Steve finally lets his hands drop to rest on Billy’s chest and meets his teasing stare. “We went to McDonalds,” he offers, figuring that won’t give the whole trip away. It’s not so far out of town after all.

Billy shakes his head in mock annoyance. “You disrespect me by getting food somewhere else,” he says, “and you don’t even bring me back anything?”

At that, Steve feels the trill of pleasure he gets when he does something right. Without a word, he pulls away, feeling Billy’s curious eyes on him as he heads to the door and grabs the strap of his bag, digging around inside as he makes his way back. He holds out the brown paper bag, with the extra fries and burger he got just for this moment.

Billy’s gaze sweeps over the bag before he meets Steve’s eyes again, his grin wider than ever.

“Who loves you, baby?” Steve teases as Billy snatches the bag and peers inside.

He shoves ten fries in his mouth at once and says, mid-chew, like an animal, “You do, honey bunch.” Steve rolls his eyes, but smiles anyway, not even minding the name, cause, like, that’s _right_. He does. And Billy must love him back because not even a minute later he feeds Steve some fries and doesn’t even complain about sharing.

They eat the whole bag of food standing right there in the hallway. Afterwards, Billy kisses him with salty lips and murmurs, “Thank you, baby,” which is enough to make Steve flush again. He curls his fingers over the band of Billy’s shorts and tugs him up the stairs, as Billy laughs and presses close behind him.

The rest of the day is clear-sky-blue and bright. They don’t see much of it, but Steve doesn’t mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV: You’re a gay bookshop owner in 1986 Indiana and two oblivious queer teens come into your store quoting Walt Whitman at you, wyd? Lol. Also, if anyone wants to argue that baby gay, English major, California beach bum Billy wouldn’t kin Uncle Walt, that’s your prerogative, but you would be wrong.
> 
> Btw, the poems quoted here are paraphrased! I figured Steve wouldn’t be able to remember them word for word, especially hours/days later. I highly recommend reading them, and other Whitman poems! They are much gayer than Steve makes them out to be. Here’s an excerpt of the poem Steve quotes, and Robin reads (the sunrise one):
> 
> “When I Heard at the Close of the Day”  
> …  
> And that night while all was still I heard the waters roll slowly  
> continually up the shores,  
> I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and sands as directed to me  
> whispering to congratulate me,  
> For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in  
> the cool night,  
> In the stillness in the autumn moonbeams his face was inclined toward me,  
> And his arm lay lightly around my breast—and that night I was happy.


	5. June, pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Big, Important Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter for you, as a treat. Also as a preemptive apology... we've reached the point where the posting has caught up with my writing. I'm really going to try to keep to regular weekly posting, but a heads-up that it may be a bit irregular from here out. Maybe not! Let's hope for not :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

_June, pt. II_

Lucky for Steve, Billy’s birthday (and their not-really-anniversary) falls on a Sunday, so they’re going to get the whole day together—or most of it, at least.

A few days before, Billy comes home from work in a foul mood, swearing and stomping and chopping vegetables a little too wildly for Steve’s nerves to take. Once he tugs Billy away from too-sharp utensils, he coerces him onto the couch and arranges them just right, with Billy sitting normal (sort of eyeing the game on TV but mostly glaring into space) while Steve stretches out with his head in Billy’s lap.

Through lots of trial and error, Steve’s learned this is the best setup when Billy’s pissed about something. This way, Billy can stare at the TV, random things around the room, and empty air, but never _at Steve_ , which he doesn’t like to do when he’s having _A Feeling_. But Steve gets to look at _Billy_ and feel his solid thighs beneath his head, and sometimes Billy will play with his hair or let Steve hold his hand, and that’s pretty good, too.

After about five minutes of Billy sitting and breathing and tugging his fingers through the tangle of Steve’s hair, Billy sighs, slow and deep. Steve twists his hands in the blankets by his sides. He wants to say, _let me fix it for you_ or maybe, _I can be good and help you forget it._ But instead, he chews on his lip and waits.

A moment later, Billy gently pries Steve’s bottom lip away his teeth and presses his thumb there in its place, lets it rest for a second, then two. Steve kisses it to make Billy smile and he does. Then, he rubs Steve’s cheek, so softly, right where his dimple would be.

After endless, quiet minutes, Billy finally says, “Carl wants me to work Sunday,” and then smooths the worried wrinkles that appear in Steve’s forehead.

Steve tries not to let his total disappointment show on his face, but he knows he fails. “All day?” he asks, and before Billy can answer _,_ Steve cuts him off, not wanting to hear it, “It’s your _birthday_.” Carl, the owner of the garage, _likes_ Billy, Steve thought. Surely, he wouldn’t make Billy work on his birthday, even if he doesn’t celebrate it.

Billy goes back to running his fingers through Steve’s hair, and now it’s like they’re switched, him consoling Steve, which works anyhow cause this position’s good for that too. “You know I don’t care about that,” says Billy, and Steve frowns before he can make himself not.

They haven’t really talked about this weekend, is the thing—what it means for them or if it means _anything_. To be honest, Steve was pretty sure Billy _wouldn’t_ remember, that one year ago Sunday, they kissed for the first time. Billy doesn’t really _do_ holidays and probably doesn’t celebrate anniversaries, or even bother to mark them, but Steve _does_. Even if Billy didn’t remember, Steve still had plans.

He was gonna wake Billy up with coffee in bed (one of the only things he’s allowed to make). Then, if Billy wanted, they’d kiss or do other stuff or maybe just lie together with the windows wide open, letting the breeze in. Billy would make breakfast, and then they’d go for a drive, maybe head out by the farms to see the late summer lambs, then down by the little lake Steve showed Billy last summer. They’d swim for a while and lie on the sand and kiss again. Then, they’d go home and shower and nap. Billy would cook dinner, and, when it was dark enough, Steve would drag Billy out the window of the second-floor landing, out onto the ledge of the roof, which is just large enough for both of them to stretch out and look at the stars.

Steve would take Billy’s hand and kiss the scars on his knuckles the way he wanted to do last year in the same place on the same day. He would say, _I’m so glad you’re here with me,_ and, _I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t met you._ Then he’d say _, I love you,_ and, _you are my whole world._ Billy would scoff or roll his eyes, but Steve would press his lips to the pulse of Billy’s neck and whisper, _I mean it_ , and hope Billy knew how much.

Then, when they were getting ready for bed, Steve would sigh real big and beg Billy to read him something because he wasn’t tired yet. Billy would say, _sure, sweetheart, what should I read?_ And Steve would reach under his pillow where he hid the present that morning and pull out the book and say, _here, read me my favorite_. And Billy would take the book with gentle hands and try not to smile and kiss Steve and say, _thank you, I love it, I love you_.

They can still do all that, Steve tells himself—most of it anyway. They’ll have to shorten the day, just have dinner and hang out on the roof, but that’s _fine_. _Really_.

Billy smooths his fingers over the purple grooves beneath Steve’s eyes. “I’m sorry, baby,” he says.

“No,” says Steve, “It’s fine.” If Steve was smarter, he’d’ve just _told_ Billy to be free on Sunday and he didn’t, so he can’t be mad. “It’s _your_ birthday, anyway.”

Billy shakes his head, his mouth still twisted in displeasure. “I don’t give a shit, but I know _you_ do. Knew you were planning something.” Figures he would—mind reader, and all. “I got Carl to let me go at noon, one at the latest. Okay?” 

“Yeah,” says Steve, catching Billy’s hand to kiss at his fingertips. That’s even better—so they won’t get the morning together, but they can still make it to the lake. That’s fine, that’s perfect. “I _do_ have plans,” Steve admits, so they’re really on the same page. “You’ll like it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Billy smirks, his shoulders finally dipping, tension easing away with Steve’s.

“Yeah,” says Steve. “Promise.”

It’s all looking up, till Saturday, when Dustin calls with an _absolute life-or-death emergency_.

“Who’s dying?” Steve demands, clutching the phone, with white and freezing fingers.

“Me,” says Dustin, suspiciously whiney rather than scared.

“ _What_?”

“Because,” says Dustin, “My mom’s gonna _kill_ me if I get a bad grade at science camp, so you _gotta_ help me, okay?”

Steve slumps against the fridge and presses one hand to his chest, let’s the other one relax its death-grip on the phone. “Dustin,” Steve says, trying for stern but probably coming off more relieved. “You _can’t_ say shit like that, when we know people who have _actually_ _died_.”

“Oh. Sorry,” says Dustin, and he does actually sound it. “Um, but you’ll still help me, right?”

Steve sighs and jumps up on the counter, settling into his regular phone-talking spot now that the crisis is averted. “What do you need?”

He relaxed too soon, though, because, Dustin explains, he needs Steve to drive him to a pond by Wilshire Farm tomorrow morning, which—“Don’t you mean the lake?” The same one he’s going to bring _Billy_ to tomorrow.

“ _Lake_ ,” Dustin echoes, mocking him. “That’s not a lake, it’s, like, a puddle.”

“Oh, like you’re the king of lakes,” says Steve, maturely.

“That would actually be such a good character for D&D. Steve, that could be _you_!”

“Dust,” says Steve, tired already from this conversation and thinking longingly of Billy stretched out on the sofa in the next room. “Can we get back to this giant favor I’m doing you?”

“So, you’ll do it?”

“The point, Dustin!”

“Okay, geez. It’s not _giant_ , or whatever, really. I just need you to drive me to the _lake_ so I can get a sample of the water for class on Monday.”

“You have _class_ on _Monday_?”

Steve can _hear_ Dustin rolling his eyes. “I’ve told you about science camp a billion times—don’t you listen when I tell you stuff?”

Under Dustin’s overdramatic annoyance, there’s an undertone of genuine hurt, which makes Steve feel, like, the absolute worst. It’s not his fault his brain has the capacity of a peanut and that, sometimes, when people talk, the words just float around his head but never land. But he’s learned that excuse doesn’t really go over well. It just makes him sound like a self-centered asshole who doesn’t care enough to _try_.

“Why can’t you just bike?” Steve asks, bypassing the topic entirely.

Dustin sighs, long and drawn out, the way Billy does when he’s being a bitch. “I can’t _bike_ with a _container of water_ , Steve! And you _know_ that hill is impossible. I’d have to get off and walk, and then I’d _really_ drop it.”

All fair points, Steve thinks, frustrated. He _really_ needs enough time tomorrow to pick out what to wear and do his hair and make sure everything’s _perfect_. He doesn’t want to take Billy out smelling like the lake before they even _get_ there.

“And your mom can’t take you?” Steve tries, his last resort.

“You _know_ she plays bridge on Sundays,” says Dustin, which Steve does know, actually. With no more options left, he briefly considers calling Jonathan and asking if he’d be free. But then Steve would have to explain why _he’s_ not free, and that feels like something that would end badly for him.

Resigned, he tries to mentally calculate how long it’ll take to drive Dustin to the lake, then come home and get everything ready. “You said the morning, right?” he asks.

“Yup,” says Dustin, too chipper now that he’s successfully worn Steve down. “I have to collect the samples at the same time I always do, which is like—um, ten-ish?”

He’s gonna have to wake up _so_ early, but he hasn’t seen Dustin in too long anyway. It’ll be fine. It’ll make the day even _better_ , probably. He’d get too freaked out waiting for Billy all morning. This is a good thing, actually.

“Okay,” says Steve, as Dustin cheers loudly. “But you owe me, got it?”

“Whatever you say, boss man,” says Dustin. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow? Pick me up at like nine thirty.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” says Steve, his annoyance already returning.

“Thanks, Steve, you’re the best, see you then!”

Dustin hangs up before Steve can say anything else, and he spends about a minute staring at the receiver in his hand, marveling at this kid’s audacity. At least his confidence has improved, probably cause of Max. She’s sort of a bad influence, Steve thinks fondly, before he heads into the living room to find his own bad influence.

Billy’s lying on his stomach with one hand dangling off the side of the couch, lazily pressing the channel up button as he flips aimlessly through shows. Steve flops down on top of him, the length of his front aligned perfectly with all the dips and grooves of Billy’s back. Steve kisses the base of his neck, thinking again about tomorrow and how good it’ll be.

“Who’s’it?” Billy mumbles a few moments later.

“Dustin,” Steve sighs. “I gotta do stuff with him tomorrow morning. But you’ll be at work, right? And I’ll be done by the time you get home.” That’s a promise he’s planning to keep, even if he has to literally leave Dustin in the middle of nowhere.

“S’good,” Billy says into the couch cushion. Steve kisses the warm spot behind his ear, feeling his chest get that too-tight, wobbly feeling that still leaves him breathless, when he thinks, _nobody in the world gets Billy sleepy and quiet like this—nobody but me._

“Love you,” says Steve, as he feels Billy’s breaths even out.

“Mhm. Stevie,” Billy murmurs, and that’s all he gets out before he drifts off. It’s enough though, Steve thinks, as he tucks his nose in Billy’s hair and breathes him in. Steve knows what he means.

“Tell me again,” Steve says through his teeth as he wipes disgusting sweat off his forehead. He’s gonna have to _shower_ after this, like, what the _fuck_. “Why it takes _two_ people to fill a _cup_ with _water_.”

“It’s just easier,” says Dustin without turning around, too busy leading the way to the lake and acting like this is a fun, carefree way to spend a Sunday morning, and not _literally_ the _worst_. “I’ve had to do this a few times,” Dustin goes on, “And last time Will came with me. It goes _so_ much faster than when I do it myself. Besides, _you’re_ the one who told me I _have_ to be done in thirty minutes or you’re gonna ditch me.”

Steve did say that, like an idiot. He could be sitting in his air-conditioned car right now, but no. He’s getting sticks in his hair and _ruining_ his new shoes. He did _not_ dress to be trekking through fucking fields.

“I hate this,” he says, for probably the tenth time in five minutes, but he doesn’t care. Dustin needs to _know_. “You owe me so hard for this.”

Dustin mutters something suspiciously annoyed under his breath, as if he has any reason at all to be pissed at _Steve_. Steve should be pissed at _him_ , and he _is_. This _sucks_.

“God, are we there yet?” Steve whines maybe twenty seconds later. It’s _so_ much hotter than he thought it would be. He might need to jump into the lake when they get there just to cool off.

“ _Almost_ , jeez. Weren’t you, like, an athlete? You’re kind of out of shape.”

 _No, you are,_ Steve almost snaps before he reins himself in and thinks about all the reasons that would be a shitty thing to say. “I’m old now, dude,” he says instead. “Old people can’t hike in 100-degree weather, okay?”

“Okay, grandpa,” Dustin snipes back. _Definitely_ spending too much time with Max.

Steve opens his mouth to reply with something amazingly witty and mature, but Dustin finally stops, right in front two large bushes. He rocks back on his heals and nods at the overgrown leaves, and the dirt path that disappears between them.

“After you,” he says, in his nerd-character voice.

Steve squints at him, beyond suspicious. “Is this some kind of prank? Is this poison ivy? Is there, like, a giant spider’s nest in there?”

“Spiders don’t have nests, Steve,” says Dustin, like that’s what’s relevant. “I just don’t trust you right now. If I go first, you might just leave, because you’re in a weird, pissy-panic mode today.”

“You’re in a pissy-panic,” says Steve, as he huffs past Dustin and pushes his way through the brush. It’s not even worth it to argue. He just wants this over with.

He has to close his eyes and keep his head down as he shuffles forward, the hundreds of branches no doubt leaving scratch marks along his arms. When he finally stumbles out the other side, he has to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust to the light. When they do, he blinks again and then again, trying to process the scene in front of him.

They’ve made it to the edge of the lake, somehow, coming out of a crop of trees Steve’s never tried to pass in all the years he’s been here. A few yards away, down by the water, a giant, patchwork quilt sits under the shade of the weeping willow, where Steve kissed Billy for the third time, last summer. On the blanket, there’s a cooler with shiny, red Cokes, and a real, actual picnic basket, the wicker kind, from movies. There are towels and pillows and, just visible beside them, a familiar boombox, its silver antenna scattering light in the sun. And there, in the middle of it all, is Billy, smirking wide enough to split his cheeks.

Maybe it’s the shock of the moment or the dizzying heat, but he looks more beautiful than Steve has _ever_ seen. His summer-gold hair isn’t pulled up like it’s been the last few weeks. It falls over his shoulders in waves, held back from his face with sunglasses, pushed up to see in the shade. He’s not wearing anything special, really—an old band shirt Steve’s seen a hundred times and the jean shorts Steve folded and put away just last night. But, still, despite that—or maybe because of it—he’s _breathtaking_. It’s all Steve can do to stay upright, slack-jawed and staring, even as Dustin tumbles loudly out of the bushes behind him.

“ _Finally_ ,” Dustin says and then he brushes past Steve like this amazing, wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime moment doesn’t faze him at all. Steve guesses it wouldn’t, but he’s not really thinking clearly. He can’t stop looking at Billy’s tan legs and his freckled face and the way his shirt clings to his chest with sweat.

“Cool setup,” says Dustin, like that’s a worthy compliment for _this_. He holds out a hand and makes a grabby motion Steve knows without a doubt Billy hates. “Payment please,” Dustin adds, in a different but equally nerdy character voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Billy, showing a restraint that Steve is genuinely proud of. If Dustin had tried this little attitude with Billy last year, Steve’s pretty sure Billy would’ve hauled him up by his collar and dunked him the lake. Now, Billy just hands over several bills, which Dustin counts obnoxiously before shoving them in his back pocket.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” says Dustin, once again sounding way too much like Max for Steve’s comfort. “Where’s my bike?”

“Back by the road,” says Billy, “At the regular entrance.”

“You just left it there?” Dustin demands, clearly pushing his luck.

Billy rolls his eyes. “Like anyone would steal that piece of junk.”

Dustin opens his mouth, probably to say something equally snappy and dramatic, but Billy crosses his arms over his chest and straightens from his hunch, instantly turning into the Billy Hargrove that had the whole Party terrified, two years ago.

“Beat it, kid,” Billy nearly growls, and Dustin nods quickly, taking a few stumbling steps back.

“Yup, sure,” he agrees. He doesn’t bother to spare Steve more than a glance as he heads off in a different direction. “Have a good date, Steve!” he calls before he vanishes behind a bend.

And then it’s just Steve and Billy, and the picnic he went to drastic measures to surprise Steve with. Billy huffs one more time at the air where Dustin disappeared before he turns to face Steve. He lets his arms fall and ambles closer, once again the Billy Steve lives with and kisses and loves more and more every single day.

When he’s close enough, Billy reaches out and pulls Steve in by the hips, pressing his lips to Steve’s jaw.

“Hey,” he says, when he pulls back, his eyes shining even in the semi-dark of the shade.

“Hi,” Steve breathes, mesmerized still. Billy smiles at the awe in Steve’s voice, and tugs, once, twice, at the belt loops of Steve’s shorts.

“Surprise,” he murmurs, shy and happy in a way Steve’s never seen. It’s like how he gets when he bakes Steve things, but more and better.

“Billy,” says Steve, because he’s incapable of higher thought right now. His whole brain is just Billy’s name over and over.

Billy doesn’t seem to mind, though. If anything, he looks pleased at Steve’s speechless response. “Like it?” he teases.

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve says again, pushing closer so he can press his face to Billy’s shoulder and get a hold of himself. Billy’s arms come up around Steve’s waist, and then they just stay like that for a while, nearly swaying in the warm, June air.

Finally, when the blinding rush of pure joy tapers off a little, Steve lifts his head and says, “I can’t believe you got Dustin to help you.”

“I know,” Billy mutters, embarrassed.

“ _Dustin."_

“I _know."_ Billy shakes his head like he can hardly believe it himself. “I thought if I asked Max, you’d suspect something.”

Then Steve’s the one shaking his head. “I really wouldn’t’ve,” he says honestly. He never would’ve thought Billy would go to these lengths just to surprise Steve, on _Billy’s_ birthday, which reminds him—“I can’t believe you one-upped me. It’s _your_ birthday. I’m the one supposed to be spoiling _you_. I had _plans_ , you know,” Steve adds, trying to ignore Billy’s growing smirk.

“Yeah, I bet you did. Not as good as this though.”

Steve scoffs, eyeing the picnic over Billy’s shoulder. “It’s not like it’s a contest,” he says, instead of trying to pretend he’s not fucking thrilled right now.

Billy sees through him, like almost always. “But if it was, I’d be winning, right?”

Steve laughs at that, can’t help it with the happiness surging up through his chest. “Yeah,” he admits, resting his arms on Billy’s shoulder and kissing his cheeks, his forehead, his chin. “You win,” he breathes, allowing his giddiness to color his voice. “This is fucking incredible, Billy.” 

Billy eyes get impossibly warmer and his smirk dims to something softer. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, almost like he’s nervous, which may just be the wildest thing yet. “I know it’s my birthday, but, you know. It’s also…” He trails off, staring over Steve’s shoulder at the sheltering trees, his cheeks pink.

Steve’s heart shouldn’t be able to take this, he thinks. It shouldn’t be able to get this big and full—he’s shocked it hasn’t popped from the strain. “Also, what?” he prompts, unable to keep from teasing just now. He feels like he could float away.

Billy rolls his eyes and huffs again, like that’ll make Steve forget he’s the cheesiest, sweetest guy around. “You know,” he says firmly, squeezes Steve’s hips but still not meeting his eyes.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, leaning sideways to force Billy to look at him, his cheeks hurting with the size of his grin. “I’m not sure I do,” he says, making voice go funny with fake innocence. “In fact, I don’t think I have any idea what you’re talking about. What could possibly—”

He cuts off with a laugh as Billy pinches at the dimple of Steve’s back, where he’s ticklish. “Fuck you,” says Billy, his voice bubbling with warmth.

Steve lets the laughter dim into a golden, molten feeling, like one of Billy’s fresh cookies. He trips forward to press his lips to Billy’s neck. “Wanna hear you say it,” he murmurs against Billy’s skin.

Billy pulls back just enough to meet his gaze, finally. “One year,” he says, rough but earnest. “Of this.” He lifts a hand to thumb at Steve’s cheek, just looking at him, with his sweet blue eyes, like Steve’s something special enough to keep.

Steve wishes he could bottle this moment and wear it around his neck, show it off to Robin and Nancy and that guy at the bookstore, and anyone who would ever dare to think _Steve’s_ the one settling here. He kisses Billy then, reeling him in, almost wishing they were home so he could drop to his knees and show Billy just how thankful Steve is for all of this, and him. 

“Happy anniversary, baby,” Steve says when he pulls back, minutes or hours later. Billy smiles back, that shy one just for Steve, so Steve kisses him just _once_ more, for luck.

“Alright, okay,” Billy grumbles when Steve gets distracted trying to kiss each individual freckle (it’s only fair). Billy takes a purposeful step back but holds a hand out for Steve, waggles his fingers the way he hates. “Come see what I made ya,” he says.

So, Steve lets himself be pulled along to the set up under the willow tree, where Billy tugs him impatiently until he follows Billy’s lead and takes a seat on the blanket. He smooths a hand over the familiar fabric, trying to grasp at the ghost of a memory it calls up. He can’t remember, until he catches sight of a worn boy scout patch— _High Adventure_ , it says, _1975_ —stitched randomly between two quilt squares.

“Where’d you find this?” Steve asks, only half hearing himself as he runs his fingertips over the neat, blue stitching. He’s thinking of cookies and porcelain dolls and a handmade stocking over a roaring fire with Steve’s name is green letters.

“The guest room closet,” Billy says, still digging through the picnic basket to show off what he’s brought. He pauses for a second though, maybe registering Steve’s question, and turns back to look at him. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I put, like, four towels under it so it won’t get dirty.”

Why that makes Steve’s eyes sting, he doesn’t know, but he surges forward to kiss Billy’s cheek, needing to do _something_ with the uncontainable warmth bursting in his chest. Billy eyes him curiously as he pulls back, but doesn’t ask, only shakes his head and mumbles, “You and your blankets, man. I’ll never get it.”

Steve opens his mouth to say _my nana made this,_ and _she baked me things too,_ and maybe even _she would have loved you a lot._ But then Billy’s pulling out containers of cookies and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and Steve forgets to say anything but, “Holy shit, dude.”

Billy grins. “Made your favorites,” he says, pulling even _more_ things from the basket. There’s fruits and cheese and crackers and a jar of peanut butter, and what looks like a bowl of Kellogg’s in Tupperware.

Steve feels his eyebrows raise. “Just how long do you think we’re gonna be here?” he asks, eyeing the growing mountain of food between them. Billy at least looks a little rueful when he shrugs and says,

“As long as you want. I just didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for.”

“In the mood for _something_ ,” Steve mumbles too quiet for Billy to hear. He hums in question, but Steve doesn’t repeat himself, he just takes the napkins and silverware gently from Billy’s hands and nudges at him until he takes the hint and scooches over on the blanket. Steve presses forward till he’s almost in Billy’s lap, staring at Billy’s pink, pink lips, but before he can really kiss him, he remembers where they are, and jerks back, staring out across the lake for any other swimmers

Billy’s hands come up around his hips, sliding lower, then lower. He leans forward to nip at Steve’s neck. “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I put up a _closed for maintenance_ sign on the main road.”

Steve shivers from Billy’s attention but still manages to laugh in surprise. “You fucking didn’t.” He can feel Billy smirk against his skin.

“You really thought I’d set all this up if some little snots were gonna interrupt us?” Steve _hadn’t_ thought about it really. He’s still kind of hung up on all the trouble Billy went to. It makes Steve flush hot all over, thinking of how long it must’ve taken, and the whole fake plot Billy had to make up, all for one moment of Steve’s surprise. It’s the kind of thing Steve’s only ever done _himself_ , and it’s blindsiding, _intoxicating_ , to be on the other side of it. 

If he thinks about it for one more second, he’s gonna burst into tears, which would really ruin the mood. So instead of saying, _no one’s ever loved me like this,_ he just wraps a hand around Billy’s warm neck, pulls him closer, and teases, “What kind of maintenance happens at a lake?”

Billy kisses up Steve’s jaw. “This kind,” he says, and flips them over real quick. Then Steve’s lying on his old, forgotten blanket, staring up at this boy who loves him, shadowed by the sun but still so beautiful. Steve’s body is one long hotwire, or the string that runs to a stick of dynamite, burning all over with Billy above him, tucked in the space between Billy’s strong arms.

But Steve’s also kind of pain in the ass, as Billy loves to tell him, so instead of letting it go, he sighs as Billy nips at his neck and says, “That doesn’t make _any_ sense. How is this _maintenance_? That’s kind of a _boring_ way to talk about what we’re doing, unless you just want me lie back and—”

Billy growls that stupid way he does that should sound fucking ridiculous but actually makes Steve wanna lick into his mouth until that noise can live in his lungs. “God, shut up,” says Billy, yanking Steve’s hips to move him into a better position. Probably cause he knows that shit makes Steve beg for it, when Billy pulls and pushes Steve just how he wants him.

But Steve’s so, so _heartbreakingly_ happy, and when he gets like this, he can’t ever shut up, the joy just spilling out in nonsense and teasing until Billy gets him to that place where his brain finally settles.

Steve opens his mouth to say, _make me,_ but Billy’s sick of that line, probably, cause he doesn’t give Steve a chance to say a thing. He just tangles a hand in Steve’s hair and _tugs_ until Steve gasps, and then he’s right there to catch the air from Steve’s mouth with own.

The reason Steve never liked kissing before, he thinks, is cause _nobody_ does it like Billy. There’s no question of what Steve’s supposed to do or when, just Billy pressing into him, holding him still. And it’s never _just_ kissing. Billy’s always rubbing his thumb over that spot behind Steve’s ear, or tugging at Steve’s hair, or sliding his big, warm hands up Steve’s shirt and smoothing his fingers over the dimples in his back. There are probably girls _somewhere_ that kiss like this, like _they’re_ in charge and you better like it, but Steve’s never known one. And if there are _guys_ out there who kiss just the same, well—it _still_ wouldn’t be as good.

Cause it wouldn’t be _Billy_ , who for all his growling and pushing, always treats Steve _so_ careful and presses the softest kisses to Steve’s cheeks and nose and eyelids. And when he holds Steve down hard enough to bruise, he puts his lips to the marks, after, and whispers, _you know I’ll only ever hurt you when you want it._ And when Steve whispers back, _I want it_ , he never, ever makes fun. He just wraps Steve in his arms and says, _I want it too, with you_.

Knowing there’s nobody in the world, ever, who will just _fit_ Steve like Billy does, knowing he probably won’t _like_ kissing anymore _after_ Billy the same way he didn’t _before_ , make Steve’s glowing, burning happiness snap away, just like that. He doesn’t want to think about _that_ —the looming end—not now, not on this big, bright, _important_ day, but his brain likes to remind him of the absolute worst things in his life at the worst possible times.

Billy notices, cause he always does. In a blink, he slows and switches from his _I’m gonna eat you whole_ kisses to his _gonna take care of you_ ones. He pulls his hands from Steve’s back and holds his face instead, so, so gently, and kisses his temple, his forehead, and the bruises under his eyes.

Then, like it’s nothing at all, he takes Steve’s hand, sits back, and says, “Let’s eat.” He doesn’t ask or push, just keeps one hand tangled in Steve’s and starts putting together little plates of all his homemade treats.

And Steve wants to sob, and scratch at his skin, and scream, _I wish you’d treat me like shit, so I won’t miss you when you’re gone._ But he also wants to get down on his knees, cry big, pathetic tears, and beg, _please don’t go away, I only just got you, just love me a little bit longer, give me another year or two or twenty._

 _Today isn’t for that_ , he makes himself think, five times over as he watches the plates fill up. _Today is for treating Billy so good and making sure he knows he’s the love of your fucking life._ Steve nods to himself, agreeing, and takes the plate Billy holds out, mouth watering at the sight of the cookies, strawberries, homemade dip, and the crunchy chips Billy makes somehow in their oven.

“You’re the love of my fucking life,” says Steve, which makes Billy laugh, probably cause he thinks it’s a joke. Steve shoves a cookie in his mouth instead of frowning, so Billy doesn’t get the wrong idea. He’s got the whole day to make sure Billy knows it’s the truth.

After they eat their fill, Billy drags Steve to the edge of the lake, where they strip down to their boxers. The real dock is on the other side of the water, where the main entrance is, so they have to just wade in from the sand. Steve’s up to his knees, already shivering and wishing he could just jump in, when Billy says from somewhere behind him, “Hey, babe?”

“Hmm?” Steve hums and turns to look. When he catches sight of Billy’s shit-eating grin, he knows he’s in trouble, but he still doesn’t have time to react before Billy’s shoving him, just hard enough to put him off balance. Steve tries to reach out to drag Billy with him but he’s not quick enough, and soon the cold, dark water is coming up to meet him. They’re not out that deep yet, but it’s still enough to cover Steve nearly completely as he falls on his ass.

“Oh, you _fucker_ ,” he says as he struggles to his feet. Billy knows payback’s coming, so he’s off like a shot, taking big, bounding leaps in the water before he starts swimming for real. Steve races after him, but Billy’s got the lead and a pretty big advantage—he swims like a fish, too used to the ocean, Steve guesses, and sunny, beach weather all year around.

Steve gives up pretty fast and starts dicking around, doing summersaults and back floats till Billy gets the hint and loops back around. They splash at each other and race to the dock on the other side (Dustin’s right—it’s not that big of a lake). The sun dips lower and lower in the sky, and just when Steve’s thinking of maybe asking if they should head back to shore, Billy gets an arm around his waist and tugs him closer till their legs knock together underwater and they’re breathing the same air.

Steve expects a joke or something cheesy or maybe another fake-out before they race back to land, but Billy does none of that. He just stares and stares at Steve, and normally Steve doesn’t mind waiting him out, cause it takes him a while sometimes to get his thoughts into words, but the sun’s behind a cloud now and it’s getting colder by the minute.

“What,” says Steve finally, staring at the water dripping down the side of Billy’s neck.

“Are you happy?” he asks suddenly, which makes Steve snap his gaze back to meet Billy’s.

Steve frowns before reaching out to hook his arms over Billy’s shoulders, sensing the moment’s gonna turn serious and needing to touch him. “Um, duh,” says Steve, like the genius he is. When Billy just stares some more, he swallows and adds, “Of course, dude. This has been the best day, like. Ever.”

“Not today,” Billy says back, frowning at himself, like he’s not getting it out right. “Just…”

Steve curls his fingers into the nape of Billy’s neck and nods. “Yeah,” he says softly. “You make me happy, every day.”

When Billy meets his eyes, he looks actually _worried_ like—like he doesn’t know that? How could he not _know_ , after a whole year—

“It’s just,” says Billy lowly, like it’s a secret or something. “Sometimes, you…. You don’t always…”

Steve makes a weird kind of whining noise deep in his throat, not even on purpose, just. The fact that Billy’s been _worried_ about this, that Steve’s been so _obvious_ about how fucking depressed he is over Billy leaving that Billy thinks it’s his _fault_? That _he’s_ doing something wrong? It’s like the worst kind of guilt and _badness_ all wrapped into one.

“ _No_ ,” says Steve, wishing they were back on the blanket so he could climb into Billy’s lap. As it is, he just treads forward till their chests bump, curls his arms tighter over Billy’s shoulders, and presses the words into his cheek. “It’s not you. It’s never you. I just—I just get _sad_ sometimes.” Steve has to swallow around something in his throat just saying that.

He knows he got fucked up somehow, from the demodogs or Nancy or maybe even something he was born with that just got activated, like the cicada bugs that wake up every seventeen years. Every terrible, shitty thing happens to him just makes it stronger, gives it more material to work with. And this thing with Billy, and the fact that it’s June, which is practically _August_ , it’s just been—it’s just been _hard_. Harder, than usual, these days. But none of it is _Billy’s_ fault.

“I wish I could help,” Billy mumbles, so soft Steve almost misses it over the lapping water. He pulls back to look at Billy again, needing him to see how much Steve means it when he says,

“You _do_ , baby. God, you’re, like, the _one_ _thing_ that makes it better, always, no matter how shitty I feel. You’re my favorite part of every day.” _And I’ll be so fucking lost when I_ don’t _see you every day_. He doesn’t add that last part, though. Cause that’s not what today’s about.

Billy nods and gets closer again so he can press his forehead to Steve’s and breathe him in. He closes his eyes, but Steve doesn’t, he just stares instead at Billy’s long eyelashes clumped together.

“I love you,” says Steve after a moment, remembering his main goal of the day. “More than anything, than _anyone_.”

Billy nods again and finally opens his eyes, which thankfully look less worried. “Me too,” he says, and then he swims back suddenly, tugging at Steve’s hand underwater. “Come on. I’ll show you how much.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve smirks, wiggling his eyebrows obnoxiously. Billy rolls his eyes in reply and just swims faster.

“Not _that_. Got you something.”

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve whines, not that he doesn’t love gifts, but— “You’re seriously making me look bad. You didn’t have to get me anything.”

Billy scoffs, though it comes out more like sputter in the water. “You think I don’t know you at all? Like _you_ didn’t get _me_ something?”

“Yeah, well. _This_ ,” Steve juts his chin out at the shoreline, where all their stuff is waiting, “is more than enough.”

“Nah,” says Billy. “I know you. You need something you can keep.”

Steve almost stops swimming at that, shocked to realize that—it’s sort of _true_ , athough Steve’s never thought about it that way before. It’s not like he _gets_ gifts that much, besides the normal ones on Christmas and his birthday.

But he _loves_ the mittens Billy got him, wore them well into April even when it was too warm to need them. Plus, there’s the shoebox way back in his closet that Billy shouldn’t know about, with a ticket stub from a fair they went to in May, one of Billy’s hair ties, a button from his varsity jacket, and the wrapper from a stick of gum Billy gave him last September, before Steve really knew what they were doing. He’s never gone through the box, really, but he just likes knowing it’s there. And when August comes and Steve’s alone, he knows those little things are gonna keep him sane, late at night, when he’s not sure if this was real.

They’re back to shore by the time Steve’s wrapped his head around the fact that Billy knows him better than he knows himself, which figures, since Steve’s pretty sure it’s true the other way around, too.

Steve brushes that off (too big to think about) and focuses instead on getting warm. The sun keeps dipping behind the clouds, and the quilt’s set up in the shade, so it feels colder than it must be, given the heat wave. Steve collapses in a heap on the blanket and wraps one of the corner’s around him, like a human burrito, trying to hide from the slight breeze.

“Idiot,” says Billy as he summons a towel from nowhere and drops it on Steve’s head.

Too cold to even reply, Steve just scrubs the towel over his head and then his arms, trying to dry off quick so he can go lie in the sun. He looks up and pauses, though, when he feels warm hands on his leg. Billy must not mind the damp, cause instead of drying off himself, he’s using his own towel to wipe at Steve’s feet, his ankles, his knees, a whole lot gentler than Steve’s being.

Steve doesn’t realize he’s staring until Billy looks up a few seconds later and glares at him, daring him to make fun. But Steve can’t, though, he _really_ can’t, not when Billy knows him so well and loves him so much.

“Take such good care of me,” Steve says instead of teasing, letting his genuine pleasure color his voice until it’s sickly sweet. It does the trick—Billy’s cheeks don’t flush hot and red like Steve’s do, but there’s a definite pink tinge to his tan skin.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he doesn’t stop rubbing the towel over Steve’s legs till they’re dry. When he’s done, he tosses Steve his shirt from where he left it in a crumpled pile. Then he digs around in his bottomless picnic basket until he pulls out two small rectangles wrapped in silver paper.

“Here,” says Billy, all casual, like Steve isn’t vibrating with impatience.

“ _Two_?” Steve asks with exaggerated excitement, deciding he’s gonna deal with all this attention by really playing up how much it means to him, just to see how red he can make Billy’s face.

“I mean, if you only want _one_ …” Billy starts, reaching to take one back, but Steve snatches them out of his reach.

“Too late,” he says, already ripping the paper off one and then the other in quick succession, to prove his point. With the wrapping gone, he’s left with two cassette tapes, which he’d sort of guessed from the shape. They’re nearly identical, but one case says, _Good Fucking Music,_ and one just says, _Love You_.

Steve tries to temper his smile and raises an eyebrow at Billy in mock frustration. “Really? Like, _thirty_ songs? You know it’s _really_ not a contest.”

Billy rolls his eyes. “It’s not thirty songs,” he says, and then he really does tug one of the tapes, the _Love You_ one, out of Steve’s hand, but gently this time. Steve opens his mouth to protest, cause they’re clearly _his_ now, _thank you very much_. But Billy cuts him off, “This one’s different. Just look at that one first.” He nods at the other tape, so Steve decides to trust him and opens the case to read [the tracks Billy’s written down](https://jaybugwrites.tumblr.com/post/642420123362344960/summer-bones-ch-4-sequel-to-songbirdch), in much neater handwriting than Steve’s.

The songs are all over the place, from different eras and different genres. They probably wouldn’t be found anywhere together except here, on this tape Billy made for him. Steve doesn’t know all of the songs, but his eyes sting a little at the ones he does recognize.

“Billy,” he says, overcome like usual. He blinks for a while and then shuffles forward on his knees until he can wrap his arms around Billy’s shoulders and bury his face in Billy’s neck, the spot where he smells the best.

Billy’s hand comes up to cup his head, and he says into Steve hair, “You have shit taste in music. Figured you could use some real suggestions.”

Steve laughs wetly and pulls back to glare at Billy, but his eyes are so warm and bright when Steve finds them that he forgets to be annoyed at all. Before he can say anything, Billy leans forward just enough to kiss Steve’s fake pout, there and gone. Then he taps at the case forgotten in Steve’s lap and says, “Every one of these, it’s like—when I hear them, you’re all I think about.”

That pretty much makes Steve lose it all over again, so he falls forward back into Billy’s arms and has to just breathe into Billy’s skin for a while. After a year, though, Billy knows how he gets, so he just lets Steve collect himself, cards his fingers through Steve’s hair and hums something low and unfamiliar, probably one of the songs from the tape.

After a million minutes or more, Steve pulls back, scrapes a hand over his face, and says, “Okay, where’s the other one?”

Billy rolls his eyes again but pulls the second tape out from somewhere. He doesn’t hand it to Steve right away though, just fiddles with it and won’t meet Steve’s eyes, his shoulders gone tense.

“You know if it’s stupid cheesy, I’m just gonna like it more, right?” Steve half-jokes, mostly to calm Billy down.

It works, a little. Billy sighs, and nods, and hands the tape over, fast, like if he doesn’t do it quick he’ll lose his nerve. Steve takes it gently and cups it between his hands, not opening it yet, just waiting for Billy to look at him again.

“It’s not more songs,” says Billy, staring at the quilt, pressing his fingertips to Steve’s nana’s stitching. “It’s—I wanted to…” Billy frowns at the trees and sighs again, almost angrily, like he’s pissed at himself for not saying it right.

Steve knows Billy though, so as much as he wants to know now, impatient as ever, he just waits. He shuffles away from Billy a little just so he can lie down. He puts his head in Billy’s lap and tugs at one of Billy’s hands, guides it to his hair.

Billy tugs at Steve’s wet tangles without any more prompting. After a minute or two, he says, “I know how much you like it, when I tell you nice shit. Like, tell you I love you or whatever.” Steve hums in encouragement, and agreement, and Billy goes on, “So, I wanted to do that, but, like, in a way you could keep. I thought about making you a list, you know? Like, of things you do that I like.” Steve tries not to squirm at that, but just the thought of it, of Billy laying out in words what Steve does _right_ , makes his stomach swoop.

Billy’s fingers find Steve’s lips, curled up without his permission. Billy huffs a laugh and traces Steve’s smile. “Yeah, I knew you’d like that. But I also know…” He goes quiet again, thinking, but it’s not so bad. Steve closes his eyes and imagines what that list could be like.

He nearly doses off thinking about it, but then Billy’s saying, “I know it’s—it’s not fun, for you always. To read stuff. Gives you a headache,” he adds softly, tracing the space between Steve’s eyes that wrinkles when he’s thinking too hard.

Steve blinks up at Billy, struck for a second cause, he’s never told Billy that, never told _anyone_ really, about how much his head hurts trying to sort letters into words. That’s the kind of thing that gets you in remedial classes, the kind of thing Steve’s learned is better kept to himself. It makes him want to squirm again, but in a not so good way this time. Billy can tell, though, with his mind reading powers or something, because he hurries on,

“So, I didn’t want to do that, make something not fun for you look at. Wanted you to _like_ it. So, I thought about other ways I could make it for you. And…” Billy reaches to pull Steve’s fingers apart, where they’ve wrapped around the second tape. He taps at the plastic, “That fancy-ass tape deck we got Max has a record feature, ‘member? So, I borrowed it and, uh. Read the list I made instead, like, out loud.”

It takes Steve’s brain a second to catch up with all that, and when he does, he sits up, still clutching the tape. “It’s you?” he checks, his chest already filling up at the thought. “It’s, like, your voice on here?”

Billy huffs at Steve’s excitement and reaches to wrap his hand around Steve’s ankle. “Yeah,” he says, his voice rough with embarrassment. But Steve doesn’t give two shits about whether he’s embarrassed. He whirls around, searching frantically for Billy’s boombox, needing to hear this shit right the fuck now.

“Hey, wait,” says Billy before Steve can get too far. He grabs at Steve’s elbow and drags him back. “You gotta promise me something.” His tone is serious enough that Steve stills and waits, despite his heart pounding overloud in his ears.

Billy looks worried again, or something worse, serious and sad in a way he shouldn’t ever be but especially not today, not now. “You gotta promise,” he says again roughly, and Steve finds himself nodding already. Anything. Anything to get that look out of Billy’s eyes. “You can’t listen to it yet. It’s for—you gotta wait. For when you need it, you know? For when—you miss me.”

Steve gut sinks at that, and his heart stops sudden in his chest, like whiplash. Billy made him a tape cause someday soon he’s not gonna be here to say it all in person. He’ll be in another place, with another life, too busy, probably, to call and tell Steve he loves him as often as Steve needs to hear it.

Steve can feel that future like a monster just around a corner, but he doesn’t want to look yet, he doesn’t want to look. He wants to be here, in June, with Billy, his favorite person, on his favorite blanket, in his favorite place. That’s all he wants—here, forever.

“Okay,” says somebody. Steve’s hands lay the tape down gently next to the first one. “Okay,” says the voice, which is Steve’s, in his throat. He pulls Billy to him, and he clutches at Steve like they’re switched, Billy’s face in the dip of Steve’s neck.

“Okay,” says Steve again, for no reason at all.

“I love you,” says Billy, the words muffled against Steve’s skin.

 _But not enough to stay,_ Steve thinks in the secret, terrible part of his part of his brain that’s still an asshole and always will be. He presses his lips to Billy’s temple. “I love you,” he says.

Billy shakes in his arms. Steve wishes he could sing like Billy can, but his voice is like cat screaming in the night, so he just holds Billy tighter and says, “I love you. It’s okay, I’ll wait. I love you.”

They don’t move for a while, but that’s okay. They have all day, all night. As long as it takes to make sure Billy knows how much Steve means it.

_End Part I_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the photo doesn’t load, here’s the track list of the mixtape Billy makes for Steve:
> 
> 9 to 5 – Dolly Parton  
> Uptown Girl – Billy Joel  
> Crazy Little Thing Called Love – Queen  
> Edge of Seventeen – Stevie Nicks  
> You Can Call Me Al – Paul Simon  
> Give a Little Bit – Supertramp  
> Can’t Help Falling in Love – Elvis  
> Chiquitita – ABBA  
> Baba O’Riley – The Who  
> O-o-h Child – The Five Stairsteps  
> Come and Get Your Love – Redbone  
> Don’t Stop – Fleetwood Mac  
> Dream On – Aerosmith  
> Wild Horses – The Rolling Stones  
> Born to Run – Bruce Springsteen  
> Don’t You Forget About Me – Simple Minds 
> 
> Billy thinks he's hilarious and also he's a big sap. 
> 
> Y’all, it only gets softer. Two big things next time… a POV change! And the rating may be going up ;) Stay tuned! As always, thank you for reading and let me know what you think!


	6. June, pt. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy gets gifts, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I hope this fluffy chapter can make your day as sweet and gooey as it's supposed to be.

PART TWO – BILLY

_June, pt. III_

It takes a while to pack up the picnic and find their own cars, so it's nearly four by the time Billy makes it home. He’s thinking of dinner already, whether he’ll need to cook something or if Steve’ll want to pick at the leftovers from lunch, but he forgets all that when he spots the beamer in the driveway. It sends an odd thrill of something down Billy’s spine. It’s not often Steve’s home without him, since the garage and the pool are much closer than Steve’s city office. But on the rare times Billy’s been out only to find Steve waiting for him when he gets back, it sets off that same feeling, not excitement exactly—more like relief.

Billy shucks off his shoes in the hall and drops all the shit in the kitchen before heading to the living room, where Steve’s sure to be passed out already on the couch. He’s like a toddler the way his energy runs, go-go-go until he crashes. Except, Steve’s still awake when Billy spots him, keyed up and pacing, a familiar tenseness to his shoulders that fills Billy’s stomach with rocks.

“What?” Billy says, probably too sudden if the way Steve jumps is anything to go by. He whirls around to face Billy, one hand clutching his chest like a damsel in a movie.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps. “Scared the shit out of me.”

 _Sorry,_ Billy thinks but can’t quite say, too busy going through all the possible problems that could’ve come up between now and when they last saw each other twenty minutes ago. He walks right up into Steve’s space and grabs at his hips, probably too tight, but Steve likes that, needs it, sometimes, when he’s caught in a spiral of his own worry. It works well enough, Steve relaxing a little and draping his arms over Billy’s shoulders.

“Nothing,” he sighs. “Nothing, really. Sorry,” he adds with a sheepish smile, like he knows exactly what thoughts he set off in Billy’s head and wishes he hadn’t. “I just—I got you something,” he admits, like it’s a crime. And even though that’s the dumbest shit in the world to be pacing over, Billy finally relaxes too, cause that’s just Steve’s regular flavor of anxiety, and not any special disaster kind.

“Baby,” Billy says, kneading at the round parts of Steve’s sides. He’s gotten more meat on his bones since Billy moved in, and lately Billy can’t stop touching him there, marveling at how soft he is. “You and your fucking presents, man,” Billy goes on. “How can you love giving people shit so much and still be so panicked about it?”

Steve laughs a sad, bitter sound that Billy immediately hates. “It’s a gift,” he says, meaning the opposite, meaning he’s thinking about how _fucked-up_ he is, which is about the last straw. Billy never would’ve let Steve out of his sight if he knew he’d get this low this fast, today of all days.

“Hey,” says Billy, shaking Steve in his hold until he looks up. “You could give me, like, a fucking _paperclip_ , and I would still like it, because it’s from _you_. Got it?” Billy says, serious and rough. He stares Steve down until he nods like he _gets_ it. Billy nods back and then lets him go. “Go get it, then. I gotta put the shit away anyway.”

Steve twists his fingers in Billy’s shirt for a moment longer, before he nods one last time and races upstairs, taking the steps two at time.

Billy figures Steve’ll still agonize over it for a while, but when he finishes putting the leftovers away and placing the blanket and the basket and the boombox all in their regular spots, and Steve _still_ hasn’t come downstairs, Billy lets himself sigh, just once, and then heads upstairs too. 

Their bedroom door is closed, which is never a good sign. Billy takes a breath and then raps at the solid oak with two knuckles, _knock-knock_. “Hey,” says Billy and opens his mouth to add, _you good?_ But Steve beats him to it.

“Don’t come in!” He yells, harried. Billy doesn’t know why long it would take him so long to wrap shit, but given the state of the boombox on Christmas, maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise.

“Steve,” Billy sighs, meaning, _idiot,_ but also, _I love you._ “I gotta shower.” Which is true, since Billy smells like a hot-as-hell morning spent lugging shit around a forest and also swimming in a mud pit passing for a lake. It’s also a convenient excuse to get his hands back on Steve’s hips so Billy can hold him still until he settles.

“Use the guest bath,” Steve calls back, and that’s about the last straw. Billy will enable Steve’s nerves to an extent but not if it means smelling like fucking rose petals or whatever fancy soap Steve’s parents keep _the_ _guest bath_ stocked with.

“How ‘bout _fuck no_ ,” says Billy before twist the handle of the door and easing it open. He’s trying not to not barge in like a fucking asshole, but it’s a miscalculation, cause Steve _is_ an asshole, which Billy always forgets until he doesn’t. The door jars to a stop and then nearly slams into Billy’s face with the force of Steve pushing back on it.

“I haven’t finished yet!” Steve says, like that’s an actual reason to slam Billy’s _own_ door in his _fucking_ _face_. 

“Jesus Christ, Stevie, do you think I give a shit? Let me in.”

After a second, then two, the pressure on the door eases. It’s the _Stevie_ that did it, Billy knows, which is why he keeps that in his back pocket for emergencies only. Or when Steve genuinely pisses him off. Whichever comes first.

When the door finally swings open, Billy has bite his lip to keep from yelling more, only cause he knows Steve hates it. But it takes fucking effort because—what the _goddamn_ _fuck_. 

It’s like a bomb exploded outward from the closet, and also a thief ransacked Steve’s desk. There’re papers and notebooks and old school shit strewn everywhere, not to mention the piles of clothes and various sport equipment going back ten years.

“Steve—” is all Billy gets out before Steve’s saying,

“I know, I know, I’ll clean it up, I promise.” He comes to stand in front of Billy like he’s gonna _do_ _something_ but then thinks better of it, rocks back on this heels and tugs at the place where his sleeves would be, if he had any, which he doesn’t, cause it’s a hundred degrees out. “Um, I just. I thought I had tape up here, somewhere.”

 _Tape_ , Billy thinks, trying to wrap his mind around how _tape_ has anything at all to do with the chaos that is currently their bedroom. “The tape’s in the kitchen,” says Billy flatly, picturing the cow-themed dispenser Max brought over once, inexplicably, and then never took home. It lives by the phone, by the notepad and the six thousand pens they keep in a jar there because Steve apparently knows a singular magic trick that involves vanishing pens into thin air.

“Yeah,” says Steve, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt in lieu of his invisible sleeves. “I, uh. Thought this would be faster.”

“Faster,” Billy echoes dully, still taking in the sheer amount of the _stuff_ Steve apparently has in various nooks and drawers that Billy hasn’t noticed before. He looks back at Steve to go on, to say, _this is my room too,_ and, _you really want to spend today cleaning? Today, really?_

Except.

Except he looks at Steve, looks at the way his arms hug his sides, the guilty twist of his mouth, and the squiggly lines of worry etched between his eyebrows, and Billy just—can’t. All the anger and frustration and _meanness_ that lives in him, the fiery thing that raged and raged and never slept, last year—all of that leaves him, or maybe just quiets, at the sight of Steve’s shoulders, curled inward, braced for a fight.

“Okay,” says Billy, reaching to curl his fingers into the front of Steve’s shirt and _pull_ until Steve tumbles forward and into Billy’s chest. He presses a hard kiss to Steve’s temple, trying to erase the image behind his eyes, Steve hunched like he’s _scared_.

Billy breathes in and out and holds Steve until he does the same, a few times, until the tense line of his spine loosens. Then Billy steps back and slaps a hand over his eyes.

“Alright,” he says, “I’m not looking.”

“What?” Steve laughs, and Billy’s got to bite down, hard, on his lip to keep from grinning at the change in Steve’s voice from just a few minutes ago.

“I’m not looking,” Billy repeats, “And I didn’t see shit, except for your entire wardrobe all over the floor, so. Go finish wrapping it downstairs. Tape’s by the phone,” he adds, in case Steve’s really forgotten somehow.

Steve tugs at Billy’s elbow like he’s trying to dislodge his hand, but Billy’s committed to this now, so he doesn’t budge. “Don’t clean it,” Steve says. “I’ll do it, I swear.”

“You will,” Billy agrees. “I’m gonna shower.”

“Without me?”

Billy smirks at that and this time doesn’t bother to hide it. “Yeah.” He finds Steve hand still on his arm and then wraps his fingers around his wrist, squeezes it twice, _one-two_. “Got other plans for you,” he adds lowly, picturing Steve’s pretty flush at that.

“Okay,” Steve breathes. Then the air shifts, and Steve’s lips are on Billy’s cheek, just under his hand. “Love you,” he says, which Billy knows means, _sorry,_ and also, _thank you._

Steve scramble around for a while, but Billy keeps his hand firmly over his eyes until he hears the bedroom door click shut. When he finally blinks again at the yellow-lit room, he holds in a sigh at the mess and heads to bathroom, thinking of dinner instead, and his plans for later, and Steve’s lips, soft, on his skin.

Billy takes his time, giving Steve plenty of buffer room, but after nearly an hour of smelling every one of Steve’s _products_ , trying on Steve’s fancy work pants, trying _not_ to clean up Steve’s mess, Billy finally heads downstairs, careful to walk extra loud so Steve hears him coming.

But when Billy gets to the doorway of the living room, he pauses, thinking maybe he gave Steve _too_ much time. The room is spotless for one, Steve’s nervous cleaning coming through. A Queen record’s playing lowly, and the lights are off, for once, the room lit instead by the afternoon sunshine spilling across the carpet. And there, by the large back windows, looking out at the yard, is Steve, his knees pulled to his chest as he sways that absent way he does when he’s thinking good things.

Billy keeps walking towards him, pretending his breath doesn’t catch at the sight—this boy he loves so much, _too_ much, soft and golden, like a painting.

“Hey,” Billy murmurs, something about the mood of things making him quiet. Steve doesn’t jump this time, just turns and smiles with his whole face.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs back, patting the carpet beside him. “Come sit.”

Billy sits, mirroring Steve so they’re facing each other, close enough that he can rest an arm on Steve’s knees, rest his chin on top of that, and just _look_.

Steve looks back for as long as he can without talking—twelve seconds. Billy counts.

“What?” says Steve shyly, flicking his gaze to the present beside him. It’s wrapped much neater than the boombox was. Maybe he’s been practicing.

“Nothing,” says Billy, reaching to calm Steve’s twitchy hand, messing with the gift’s bright purple bow. He tangles their fingers together and squeezes lightly till Steve looks back at him. “Gonna let me open it or what?”

Steve smiles and nods and nudges the presents closer to Billy. “I was gonna wait till later, but….” He shrugs and grins, a little rueful. “I gotta start evening the score.”

Billy takes the gift but before he opens it, he squeezes Steve’s knee and tilts his head to catch Steve’s gaze. When he looks back, Billy says, “You know there’s not really a score.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh, so _now_ it’s not a contest?”

Billy knows it’s a joke he started, but it’s not funny, really, if Steve starts taking it to heart. Billy makes sure his face is serious when he says, “You know I do all this stuff for you because I _want_ to, right? It’s not—I’m not really _keeping_ _score_.”

Steve’s smile dims but he doesn’t seem upset, just serious too. He brushes his knuckles over Billy’s cheek, right where his freckles come out in the summer.

“I know,” Steve murmurs. “But, it’s the same for me. I know you don’t always like—I don’t know, _attention_ , but,” he shrugs, “you just gotta _deal_ with it, okay? Cause doing stuff for you, and, like, giving you shit, makes _me_ happy.”

Which Billy knows, cause he’s not _blind_. But Steve’s right—it’s not like Billy has a lot of practice _getting_ things or making someone happy just by being there.

Billy fiddles with the bow now instead. He waits till Steve’s looking and looking, and then he starts removing the tape, _so_ gently, easing the wrapping paper off _inch by inch_. It takes sixteen seconds for Steve to huff in frustration and kick at Billy’s ankle. “Come _on_ ,” he says.

Billy bites down on his smirk and tries to look innocent. “But you worked so _hard_ on it,” says Billy with flawless sincerity.

Steve rolls his eyes hard enough to make Billy’s hurt in sympathy. “You are _literally_ a dick.”

“I don’t think _literally_ means what you think it means.”

“You know what?” Steve grabs at the present but Billy’s too quick, yanking it out of his reach with a grin. “No, I change my mind,” Steve goes on, still trying to reach around Billy for the gift. “If you’re not gonna appreciate it—”

“Hey, no take-backs,” says Billy maturely, and then decides that’s enough of that. Steve’s eyes are sparkling again, honey-wide in the bright sunlight, and there’s a definite smile hiding under his pout.

Satisfied, Billy rips the paper off in one go, and then juggles the two books that fall out. He sets the bottom one down, too caught by the cover of the first one, a familiar green he recognizes from so many late nights. He swipes his fingers over the gold leaves etched into the paper, trying to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. He can feel Steve shifting on the carpet, and this time Billy doesn’t count, but it doesn’t take long before Steve breaks the silence again.

“I, uh. I wrote something, inside.”

Billy flicks his gaze to Steve’s face just for a moment to catch his nervous smile before he’s flipping the cover over to read Steve’s inscription. His handwriting is as messy as ever, but there’s something careful about it too, like Steve practiced the lines beforehand, and made sure each letter was as perfect as he could make it.

_To Billy:_

_I never liked poetry but you made me hear it diferent. I see lots of things different now cuz of you. Its hard to remember a time when I didn’t know you. That old me didn’t know what he was missing but I do. This past year is the best I ever had. I’ll wait forever to have another one like it. Kinda like this:_

_“I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again,_

_I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”_

_I love you. – S.H._

_P.S. I put stars on my favorite ones. (Hint: they remind me of you.)_

Billy doesn’t bother to hide the tears he has to blink away, reading and rereading the inscription. His mind reels at all the little meanings in Steve’s simple words. That he remembered the book at all, that he _read_ through it and _marked_ _it up_ , that he _quoted lines of Billy’s favorite poem back to him_. And that, to read _I am to see to it that I do not lose you,_ knowing the end is weeks away—

Billy closes the cover so, so gently and lays it down on the carpet, so he won’t sob into the pages. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and curls his nails into his palms, so he won’t break down and get on his knees and _beg_ Steve the way he’s wanted to for months— _come with me, come with me, if you love me so much, if you don’t want to lose me, then_ don’t.

Cause Steve was pretty clear about staying, about making new friends and putting down roots, and that’s _fine_. Billy gets it. He’s never had a home in a place the way Steve does, never been able to point at houses and lakes and trees and say, _I’ve known this my whole life_. Billy doesn’t know what that’s like, but it’s probably good, probably _great_ , the reason so many people stick around the place they were born when they get the chance. So, what if Billy thinks this town’s too small for Steve, too full of bigots and assholes and girls who won’t love him right, won’t hold him down and tell him he’s the best thing in the whole damn world and _mean_ _it_.

It’s Steve’s choice, and Billy loves him enough to let him make it, even if it breaks both their hearts in the process. That’s what being a grown-up is fucking about, right?

“So, um,” Steve says suddenly. Billy blinks his eyes into focus, not sure how long he’s been staring at his own hands, trying to keep it together. “Do you… do you like it?”

Billy takes a breath and lets it out and then lifts his head to stare at Steve like he’s an idiot, knowing full well his face is probably red and blotchy with tears. “No,” Billy starts, his voice rough and clogged but still sarcastic as anything. “I’m crying like a fucking girl because I hate it.”

Steve snorts but inches closer, so their shoulders are nearly touching. He pulls Billy in with a warm hand on his neck and presses his lips to Billy’s temple. “I love you,” he says, and Billy knows he means, _I’m glad you like it,_ and also, _you can cry all you want, it’s just me._

Steve leaves his hand on Billy’s neck, so Billy takes the invitation to just stay like that for a while, his cheek against Steve’s, his nose tickled by Steve’s hair. He breathes in the smell of Steve’s fancy shampoo—sweet and fresh, like apples—and tries to capture every detail of this moment so he can take it out later, months from now, when he’s alone. He never wants to forget how safe and warm it is here, in the afternoon light, with summer birds chirping nearby and a Queen record on, and Steve beside him, swaying again, off-beat, fingers smoothing over the tiny curls at the base of Billy’s neck.

Truth is, it didn’t take Billy long to get used to it—being loved like this. Feels like it shouldn’t be hard to go back to the way it was just a year ago, or less, but the idea of losing everything again is enough to make Billy want to lie down, right here, and never get up.

“Hey,” says Steve, bringing Billy back to the present. When he opens his eyes again, the squares of light on the carpet have moved, gotten longer. It’s probably nearly dinner time.

Steve pulls back and knocks his shoulder against Billy’s to get his attention, then he nods at Billy’s other side. “There’s another one, you know.”

Billy glances down at the books again—he’d forgotten about the second one. It’s landed face down so there’s no telling what it is yet, but the way Steve shifts and tenses makes Billy brace for another heart-wrenching blow.

Still, no amount of bracing readies him for the cover when he turns it over. He has to blink a few times to comprehend it, and even then, he’s pretty lost.

Steve clears his throat and starts his normal, hurried post-present rant, “It’s, uh, more like a gift for me, I guess? But I thought—I thought maybe you could help, you know? But, only if you want, like. It’s—you don’t have to. Not if it’s, like, _work_ for you or something. I just thought…”

Billy would cut him off, but he’s too busy trying get with the program enough to know what Steve’s worried about now.

The cover is a simple design, just big letters on a plain, brown background. _Spanish and English Dictionary,_ it says in all caps, clear enough. But it’s not the _what_ tripping Billy up, more like the _why._

When he looks back up at Steve, he won’t meet Billy’s eyes, messing instead with the crumpled ball of wrapping paper from what feels like hours ago. Maybe feeling Billy’s gaze, Steve says softly, his voice cracked with nerves, “I’m not always asleep, you know. When you sing.”

It feels like something should come apart, at that, like something in Billy should shatter, realizing the pieces of himself he thought were his alone aren't so hidden after all. Billy waits for the hot rush of his temper to fill him up, waits for the sickness to settle inside him, like that fury from back in November—the last secret Steve wedged loose.

But it’s not really like that. The late afternoon light is still heavy and golden on Steve’s skin. His worry is like a living thing in the air between them, and it makes Billy want, more than anything else, to pull Steve into him, to tangle their fingers to still Steve’s shaking hands.

There’s just no room for anything angry or sharp in him today. Billy wishes his fucking throat would unstick enough for him to say, _I don't mind,_ and, _I_ _think I wanted you to hear it from the start._

But the silence kicks Steve into overdrive, like always, so while Billy’s still figuring out how to tell him it’s okay, he says in a rush, “You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to. I just—I _love_ you,” he says, desperate with it, like he thinks Billy might not _get it_ , after everything. “And I wanna, like, _know_ stuff about you.”

“You do know me,” says Billy, roughly, when he can. He knows how Steve thinks, how he’ll twist this all up to be his fault, like maybe Billy doesn’t trust him enough to tell him this shit. As if Steve isn’t the only person in the world Billy trusts much at all.

“Yeah,” says Steve. He shrugs and finally meets Billy’s gaze. “But I could know you better.”

Billy looks at the books, the one in his hands and the one on the carpet, these parts of himself that no one knows—no one but Steve. That’s always been enough for Billy, that Steve knows him better than anyone alive, even if he doesn’t know everything. But Billy’s never really thought about what that must be like on the other side of it.

It’s so _easy_ with Steve _,_ with his shitty poker face and open heart, to know him, really _know him_ , down to his bones. What must it be like for him, to look at Billy and see almost nothing, to see only the surface of a pool so dark and deep, not even Billy remembers what the bottom looks like.

“I’m not keeping shit from you,” says Billy, finally, when the mass of guilt and pain in his throat unsticks enough for the words to get out. “I just don’t think about it.”

Steve says nothing back at first, just bites his lip a little, like he doesn’t believe Billy but is trying to keep from saying so. He shrugs then and says, “Okay,” and then he taps at the book in Billy’s hands. “Teach me anyway?”

Billy swallows and swallows and gets out, “Why?”

Steve looks at Billy like it hurts him, then taps again at the book, with more purpose this time— _tap-tap_. He looks at Billy with heavy eyes and waits.

Billy swallows and swallows. He taps back with one finger, _tap-tap_.

Steve reaches across the mere inches between them and cups Billy’s cheeks, swipes a thumb over a damp spot that got there somehow. “I love you,” he says, meaning, _that’s why_.

***

“ _¿Mamá?_ ” said Will, doodling in the corner of the workbook Mama gave him, hoping she was too busy folding the laundry to see he hadn’t really done the questions yet.

“ _¿Qué?_ ” said Mama absently, looking at the clothes and also the TV, which was set to Spanish shows like it always was when Lou wasn’t home.

“ _Por qué hablamas español_?”

Downstairs Connie asked Will the same thing yesterday, and he didn’t know. They were playing outside with the chalk Connie got for her birthday, and Abuela Nita from across the street said, _cuidado, niños. Se quedan en la acera._ And Will said, _sí, abuela, lo sabemos._ And Connie said, _how come you talk like that, when you’re born here same as me?_ And Will said nothing, cause he didn’t know.

Mama stopped looking so much at the TV and looked at Will instead. “ _¿Qué quieres decir?_ ”

Maybe he didn’t ask right. Will’s Spanish wasn’t as good as Mama’s. “How come you and me speak Spanish and Connie doesn’t?”

Mama gave him a funny look then, her hands stopping mid-fold. “Connie isn’t Hispanic, baby.”

“What’s that?” said Will.

“ _Angelito_ ,” said Mama like he made a joke that wasn’t funny, “ _Qué,_ what’s that _. Sabes que yo and mi mama, tu abuela en el cielo, son de Argentina. Eso es._ Hispanic means from a place where they speak Spanish.”

“I’m not from there,” said Will, which was true, cause Argentina was from Mama’s stories when she was a baby. She hadn’t been there since she was small, when Will wasn’t _even a twinkle in her eye_ , whatever that meant.

“ _Vale, claro que sí_. _Pero_ , you are from me, and I am from there. That makes you from there too.”

Will thought about that for a while and colored some more and then said, “But what about Lou?”

“What about Lou?” Mama echoed, back to watching her stories.

“ _Mamá_ ,” Will groaned, cause sometimes Mama took _so long_ to answer one, easy question. “Lou isn’t from Argentina.”

Mama nodded and folded a shirt and said, “Lou learned from me.”

“How come?”

“How come, what?”

“ _Mamá_.”

“ _Ángel_ ,” said Mama, which was never good, cause usually that meant trouble. Will sat a little straighter and met Mama’s eyes, which weren’t mad yet but getting there. “If you want me to answer, you had better ask me in a full sentence.”

“Why did Lou learn from you?” Will asked, which sounded like a full sentence.

Mama folded two more shirts before she answered, but Will learned his lesson and didn’t whine this time. Finally, Mama finished and looked at him and said, “When you love someone, you want to share things with them. So, Lou learned to share that with us. Besides, wouldn’t it be sad if we talked in Spanish, and Lou didn’t know what we were saying?”

Will nodded, because that _would_ be sad, and also _hard_ , cause that would mean saying everything twice, and once was hard enough already. “So, it’s cause Lou loves you?” Will asked, just to be sure. Connie was Will’s friend, but she didn’t love him like Lou loved Mama, and Will didn’t like her _that way_ either.

Mama got up with the neat, clean clothes and kissed Will on the top of his head. “Lou loves _us_ ,” she corrected gently. “That’s why.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so I lied. This one scene took so much longer than I thought it would, so you'll have to wait till next week for the smutty part. Apologies! 
> 
> I hope you liked it anyway, and let me know what you think!


	7. June, pt. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that night...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Sunday somewhere, so I'm counting this one as a win. 
> 
> Did someone ask for 7k of smut? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Somehow this is the softest part yet, idek. Enjoy!

_June, pt. IV_

Billy ends up making omelets for dinner, mostly so he can sneak _some_ kind of vegetable into Steve’s food for the day. They eat early and crash on the sofa after, Steve dead to the world and snoring by seven. Billy doesn’t mind though.

After all these months, it’s still a novelty to have this, these quiet hours before bed, the time _normal families_ spend in brightly lit rooms, watching TV or reading or God forbid _talking_ , existing together and happier for it—the kind of thing Billy used to see in movies, used to scoff at and think, _peace like that is make-believe._

Even before, even with Jack, the peace they had was _fought_ _for_ , carved out between lies and homework and falling-down-drunk, screaming fathers throwing plates at walls and bashing their heads in. And during, there was always a timer ticking down, till they had to pick up Max or be seen somewhere or get home before morning.

So, there’s a shine to it, this easy time with no one waiting and nothing to do later. It might be boring to anybody else, but to Billy it’s—it’s _precious_. _Holy_. Sitting on the couch in the glow of the side table lamp, with reruns on low and Steve’s feet in his lap, Billy gets the same kind of ancient, too-big awe in his chest he’d get in another life, staring up at stain-glass saints lit Sunday-morning blue.

 _Mother of mercy,_ Billy thinks, inexplicably, staring at the damp spot of drool Steve’s making on the couch. _Our life, our sweetness, our hope._

“What?” says Steve, suddenly, and Billy has to act quick to hold back a laugh. Instead, he presses his thumb into the arch of Steve’s foot and says,

“I said, _I love you_ ,” which he hadn’t, but, asleep, Steve always acts like they’ve been talking for a while. It’s just easier to play along.

“Oh,” says Steve, pressing a sleepy smile into the sofa cushion. “Good.”

Two full sitcoms later, Steve starts his normal _wake up routine_ , which is a lot of sighing and mumbling and reaching around for a few minutes until he works up the energy to open his eyes. This time, when his hand hits empty air near the coffee table, he shoots up, saying, “Where’d you go?”, only to blink a few times when he catches sight of Billy at the other end of the couch. At Billy’s grin, he frowns and flops back down, pushing his heel roughly at Billy’s thigh.

“Shut up. Time is it?”

“Eight thirty.”

“Hmm.” Steve stretches then, like a cat, arching his back in a U even lying down on the couch. He makes it back to sitting eventually and blinks around some more. It’s a good three minutes before his brain gets to full power, and then he’s slinking sideways towards Billy, which might’ve been slick if it weren’t for the tangled pile of blankets between them.

Billy ignores him for the fun of it, but that doesn’t seem to make much of an impact. Five seconds later, he’s got a lap-full of sleep-warm Steve curling over him and humming.

“ _Baby_ ,” he says, the lilting kind of way he’s learned gets him what he wants.

Billy hides a smirk in Steve’s chest, rests his hands on Steve’s hips instead of sliding them his shirt like he would any other time. “What’s up?” he asks dumbly, like he’s got no idea.

Steve shifts a little, trying to be subtle but failing, as usual. “Didn’t you, um. Have plans?”

“Hmm,” Billy hums thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on Steve’s hips, still on his sweatpants and not on his skin. Billy waits for Steve to whine a little in his throat and then he tips his head back to meet his eyes. “Not sure I remember any plans.”

Steve smiles enough to make his dimples pop, his secret weapon. “Bet I could remind you.”

“Hmm.” Billy curls a hand around Steve’s neck, pulling slightly at the hair there, till he hears Steve’s breath catch, just a puff of air. He shifts again, closer, and Billy can feel him, hard already against his stomach.

“Jesus,” Billy mumbles, pressing his fingers deeper into Steve’s sides. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Steve curls smaller so he can kiss at Billy’s neck. “Was dreaming about you,” Steve says lowly, his lips hot against Billy’s skin.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Tell me,” says Billy, but Steve gets shy about that kind of thing, his normal, endless rambling going quiet when it’s about _this._ Steve hums and shifts again, trying to distract Billy with nips at his collarbone.

Billy’s used to it though, so he just lets Steve think he’s off the hook for a moment or two, then yanks at his hair until pulls back and meets Billy’s gaze, his eyes dark and glazed with heat.

“Tell me,” Billy echoes, lower and rougher, the way Steve knows better than to ignore. He whines in his throat and flushes, but Billy just keeps a hand in his hair and waits.

“We were…” Steve starts, squirming again, his fingers clenching and unclenching on Billy’s shoulders. Billy tightens his grip on Steve’s waist in encouragement. Steve licks his lips and goes on, “We were at school. In the, uh—in the gym.”

Billy smirks at that. “Yeah? Where?”

“Um,” says Steve, flushing even redder, all down his neck. Billy leans forward to lick at it, loving the way Steve breath gets shaky at the attention. “Uh.”

“On the court?” Billy prompts. At Steve’s silence, he guesses again. “The locker room?” Steve whines then, like he can’t help it, his dick twitching, hot, against Billy’s stomach. Billy’s smirk grows and he presses it to Steve’s skin, kissing up his neck. “Yeah? The showers?”

“ _Billy.” Jesus_ , Steve’s voice is strung out. It always shocks Billy how quick he can get there, worked up and needing it _so bad_.

“Was the team there,” Billy eggs him on. Steve’s already rocking unconsciously in his lap, so Billy gets his hands lower on Steve’s ass and helps him find a rhythm, his dick trapped between them.

“Just us,” Steve gets out between pants, his fingers gripping Billy should so hard he knows it’ll leave marks.

“Yeah,” says Billy. “No one else gets to see you like that. That’s just for me.” Steve hums, too busy working himself against Billy’s lap to answer, so Billy grips him tight again, forcing him still. He whines in protest but knows better than to keep going.

“What was I doing?” Billy asks.

“You were,” Steve pants, his lips so, so red, like he’s been biting them to keep quiet. “Your mouth.”

“Had my mouth on you?”

“Yeah, um. Had me—against the wall. I had to be still, had to be quiet.”

“Yeah,” Billy rasps, getting hard too. It’s so easy to picture it. He can’t even count the number of times he had to think of dead puppies or pre-calc tests just to keep from pouncing on Steve back then, just feet away, naked and dripping. “Wouldn’t want anybody to hear your pretty noises, baby. Those are mine, too.”

“Yours,” Steve gasps, shaking in Billy’s grip, wanting so bad to move again but being so, so good.

“You _are_ mine,” Billy echoes, easing his grip and pulling Steve in, a tacit demand to take what he needs. “But no one’s here now, baby. Let me hear you.”

Steve whines louder at that, his hips moving in uneven jerks as he tries to get pressure on his dick and also sit back in Billy’s lap, where his hard-on is impossible to ignore in his loose shorts.

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve gasps again, his voice thick with want, and it takes everything in Billy to keep from shoving Steve’s sweats down and getting a hand around him. But Billy’s already decided how he wants Steve to finish and he’s not one to change his mind halfway through. So, he gets his feet up on the coffee table to give Steve a better angle, better access to the hard line of Billy’s dick.

“Gonna come in your pants, sweetheart?” Billy huffs, finally getting his hands under Steve’s shirt to grip tight at his heaving sides and help him rock that much faster. “Gonna make a mess for me?”

“Yeah, yeah, gonna— _Billy_.” Steve’s rhythm’s shot to hell then as he chases the end, thrusting so hard against Billy’s chest, he’s sure he’s gonna bruise, not that he minds. Steve’s so pretty like this, unburdened by worry, for once, just needy with pleasure, his head thrown back in mindless beauty.

“That’s it, baby,” Billy rasps, knowing he’s close. “Let me see you. Been so good, Stevie. Be good for me now. Come for me.” After a few more rough jerks, Steve shudders and gasps, so quiet, always, at the end.

He slumps over Billy’s shoulders after, a formless shape of heat. Billy lets him catch his breath, not minding the weight. He kisses absently at the dip of Steve’s neck, the thrum of Steve’s heartbeat rapid beneath his lips.

Could be five minutes before Steve starts to shift and then mumbles, “Gross,” before leaning back to look at Billy. “Hi,” he says, shy but satisfied, not giving Billy a chance to reply before he’s kissing him, quick and soft.

“Hi, baby,” Billy rumbles when Steve pulls back again, then he stifles a groan as Steve shifts with purpose, pressing his ass back into Billy’s lap, where he’s still hard as anything.

“Can I help?” Steve asks sweetly, kissing the words into the line of Billy’s jaw.

Billy takes a few breathes and then stills Steve’s hips with a tight grip. “Not yet,” he says. “Go shower.”

Steve pulls back again to quirk an eyebrow in surprise. “With you?” he asks hopefully, but Billy’s already shaking his head.

“I already showered,” Billy says, teasing a little, knowing that’s never stopped him from joining Steve before.

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve groans, trying to rock in Billy’s hold but he stills when Billy tightens his grip in warning.

“Be patient.” Billy kisses the command into spot under Steve’s jaw that’s already red and hot from Billy’s attention. “Make it worth it for you, promise.”

Steve hums a curious sound at that, but Billy knows he’s trying hard today to be good, to tamp down on his instinct to be a brat when Billy makes him wait. So, instead of pressing his luck, Steve just leans down to kiss Billy’s cheek, soft and sweet, before he shuffles off Billy’s lap and stands.

He turns to head upstairs, but Billy grabs his hand before he gets too far, and reels him back, kisses at his knuckles, his palm.

“Be thorough,” Billy says into the soft skin of Steve’s wrist, his other hand drifting to graze Steve’s ass, still hidden by his pants.

Steve flushes bright red at that. His shyness about sex surprised Billy at first—King Steve had a reputation in Hawkins after all—but he mostly likes it, likes seeing Steve’s skin pink up even at Billy’s less than stellar attempts at dirty talk. He’s red even at this, simple allusions to Billy’s plans, and it’s cute, still, _hot_ , but only so long as Billy can tell the difference between _shy and excited_ and _shy and scared_.

Billy keeps Steve’s hand in his a little longer, kisses softly, over and over, at his pulse, until his flush recedes a little. Then Billy meets his eyes. “Okay?” he checks, wanting to know for sure, today, that they’re on the same page.

“Yeah,” Steve rasps, clears his throat and tries again, “Yeah. _Billy_. Want that, want _you_.”

“Okay,” says Billy, kisses him once more then lets his hand drop and sits back, nodding at the stairs. “Go on. I’m gonna lock up, and then I’m gonna clean up your shit.”

“You don’t hav—” Steve cuts himself off at Billy’s quelling look.

“ _Go_ ,” he says, and the feeling he gets when Steve _goes_ , just turns and heads upstairs without another word—it’s like nothing Billy’s ever felt before. A bone-deep satisfaction, a thrill in his veins, like pushing 90 on the interstate, like dodging a hit, sinking a shot at the buzzer—like power and freedom all at once.

Billy knows how Steve showers, so he doesn’t rush as he tidies the room the way Steve likes, the blankets piled neatly in their basket. He checks the locks on the windows, on the doors, keeps one light on in each room but turns the rest off, then he heads upstairs to make some kind of dent in the mess of their bedroom.

By the time the bathroom door creaks open, letting a waft of hot air into the room, Billy’s got most of Steve’s clothes shoved back in the closet and the papers organized into messy piles on the desk. He glances up in time to see Steve pad out, fresh and pink from the heat, naked except for the towel held messily around his waist.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s anybody’s guess why that one word always gets to Billy, tugs at something deep in the center of him—maybe it’s the way Steve always sounds so pleased to see Billy, as if he might’ve gone somewhere and that he _hasn’t_ is a dazzling gift better than anything Billy could’ve got him from a store. 

Billy keeps his gaze on Steve, as he backs up until his calves hit the bed and he sits. He leans back on his hands, spreading his knees to make room and then says, “C’mere.”

Steve ambles forward, keeping a hand at the towel knotted at his side. When he’s close enough, Billy reels him in, tugging Steve’s fingers gentle through his own, letting the towel fall and pool at their feet. Then Billy gets his hands high up on Steve’s thighs, just below the curve of his ass, and rests them there, keeping Steve in place as Billy presses his lips to his belly button, his hips, the trail of hair leading down, down. Steve trembles a little as Billy gets closer and closer to his dick, breathing hotly there but never touching it, just letting him get harder and redder in anticipation.

Billy waits till Steve can’t take it, till he jerks uncontrollably toward the heat of Billy’s mouth, and then he pulls back, smirking at the whine Steve lets out. He inches his fingers higher then, rubs them, so softly, against Steve’s hole.

“Did you get yourself ready for me?” Billy asks, even though he can feel the evidence for himself, Steve still wet and open.

“Yeah,” Steve gasps, jerking backwards now, into Billy’s hands. But he keeps his attention light and irregular, brushing his fingers over the tight heat of him every now and then.

“Yeah? Did you come?”

Steve shakes his head adamantly, his eyes half-lidded as he focuses on chasing Billy’s touch. “No, no, didn’t. I was good.”

Billy hums deep in his throat, his skin lighting up at the thought of Steve holding back just for him, trying to _be_ _patient_. “So good,” Billy confirms. “Always are, baby. My good boy.” Steve shudders and sways then, always moved something awful when Billy calls him that.

“So good,” Billy echoes, kissing a hot line up Steve’s stomach, standing and pressing closer when he can’t reach anymore, forcing Steve to step back. He wraps his arms around Billy’s shoulders for balance as he stumbles, lets Billy lick into his mouth with a pleased hum.

When Steve’s melted into it enough, Billy gets his hands under Steve’s ass and lifts, grinning at the squawk of surprise Steve lets out before he laughs. Billy holds him like that for a moment or two, Steve’s dick hard and pulsing between them at the show of Billy’s strength. Then, with a similar lack of warning, Billy turns and drops Steve gracelessly on the bed, laughing too at the way he bounces.

Steve tries to kick at him in mock annoyance, but Billy just catches his foot and captures it, kissing at his ankle. “Stay there,” he says, buzzing with pleasure as Steve immediately stills, his eyes following Billy curiously but not moving even to get a better look.

Billy heads to his side of the bed and opens the drawer of his side table, digs around books and pens and lube to find the thin black box hidden in the back. He takes it back to Steve, gets on his knees on the bed beside him and guides him up to sit with a hand on his shoulder.

When Steve spots the box, another gift, he groans dramatically and whines, “ _Billy_.”

“Last one,” says Billy, rolling in his eyes at Steve’s reaction. “Promise. Come on, I didn’t even pay for the other ones.”

Steve’s forehead crinkles and he frowns, his eyes serious when he says, “You know that doesn’t matter.”

“Whatever,” says Billy, finding it hard to believe Steve _born-and-raised-in-a-mansion_ Harrington doesn’t appreciate the finer things. Billy shakes the box a little, signaling for Steve to take, which he does, with careful hands. “Saved up for it,” Billy adds, then curses himself, cause now Steve’s _definitely_ going to pretend to like it even if he doesn’t.

Steve pries the lid off and sets it aside, revealing white tissue paper, which Billy always thought was stupid, needless, but he sort of gets it now. There’s something special about the way Steve peels it back, holding his breath, like an extra layer of surprise. 

“Oh,” he says softly then, pressing reverent fingers to the fabric. It’s a tie, one of those skinny ones all the yuppies wear now, but made of real silk, a powder blue that shines slightly in the yellow light of the room. Steve rubs the fabric gently and murmurs, “Soft.”

“It’s not for work,” Billy says, knowing Steve’s probably thinking it’s not really _his style_. At Steve’s questioning glance, Billy lifts the tie out of the box for him and holds it loosely in one hand. With his other hand, he circles Steve’s wrist, squeezing just hard enough to make his point.

“You know how we talked about…” Billy trails off, laying the length of the tie along Steve’s wrist like a bracelet. Steve sucks in a breath, and Billy looks up in time to catch his eyes darken, his throat bob as he swallows.

“Yeah?” Steve’s voice almost cracks with the weight of his want. “Can we—are we gonna?”

Billy smiles, squeezing Steve’s wrist once more before he lets go to thumb at Steve’s cheek. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, watching Steve’s eyes flutter a little. “We will.” He takes his hand back, and Steve opens his eyes. “But you gotta ask.”

It’s a moment before Steve hears what Billy says, and then his sweet smile dims a little, fingers plucking nervously at the empty box.

That’s their rule. With how oddly shy and almost _embarrassed_ Steve was in the beginning, about everything they did, Billy tried to make him ask for what he wanted, say the words out loud, thinking if he said shit like, _will you blow me, can I taste you, want your fingers, Billy, please_ enough, it would stop feeling like something to be self-conscious about.

And when they started doing things Billy’d never done before, _this_ kind of thing, with Billy holding Steve down and telling him what to do and making him go hazy in a way that still makes Billy nervous, even now—it seemed _more_ than important, seemed _necessary_ for Steve to ask, in clear words, for what he wanted and what he didn’t.

So, Billy doesn’t budge on this, even when Steve gets quiet and nervous. If he wants it, he’s got to say it. After a few tense seconds, Steve says, “I want it.”

“Want what?” Billy replies automatically. He waits some more.

“Want you to tie me up,” Steve breathes, his fingers wrapped in the length of silk now, his cheeks pink. “Please?”

Billy’s smile is automatic too. He reaches to wrap a hand around Steve’s neck, squeezes him there the way he likes and then pulls him in, kissing him lightly, teasing.

“Yeah, baby,” Billy says into the inch of space between their lips. “You know I’ll give you anything you need.”

“And _you_ want to?” Steve checks, like he always does.

Billy knows it’s hard for him to wrap his mind around—why, if it’s always Steve asking, if Billy never did this stuff with Jack, never needed it before, why he would want it, _now_. Billy doesn’t know how to explain that all he needs is for _Steve_ to get what he wants, that anything Steve likes will get Billy going, too. And just because Billy never thought to do it before doesn’t mean he doesn’t like the thrill of Steve’s easy compliance, and the rush that comes from knowing how much trust Steve puts in him, again and again.

“Yeah,” Billy says firmly. “I want to.”

Steve smiles then, and tilts forward into him, and Billy decides he’s been patient enough. He knocks the forgotten box off the side of the bed and drags Steve roughly till he’s nearly in Billy’s lap, his legs splayed on either side of Billy’s hips.

Billy takes the tie from Steve’s hands and slides it through his fingers, watching the way Steve watches him, his pupils blown wide at just this, just the thought of what they’re gonna do. Billy takes one of Steve’s hands in his, kneads at his wrist. “You want ‘em in the front or the back?”

“The back,” Steve answers immediately. Billy raises an eyebrow at his quickness, which makes Steve flush and bite his lip. He’s obviously thought about this, which Billy knew, has known for a while—he teases Steve with the idea of it enough. Should’ve figured he has the exact details of what he wants pretty clear.

They’ll talk about that later, maybe. Billy can usually get more out of Steve once they’re finished, any shame at what they’ve done overshadowed by pleasure and the sweet, slow feeling Steve gets, after.

For now, Billy has a plan, and Steve likes that anyway, trusts Billy to make it good for him. So, Billy nudges at Steve’s shoulder to get him to turn around and then guides his arms carefully behind his back. Then, he kisses the inside of both of Steve’s wrists before he presses them together and starts tying.

Billy had quite an afternoon in Indianapolis a few weeks ago. He’d had to go into the city for work but that didn’t stop him from ducking into a few stores that would make Steve’s head spin, flipping through magazine and books, absorbing as much as he could to feel good about this, to know he wasn’t gonna hurt Steve somehow. It’s been the main thing holding him back, till now. He knows just enough about circulation and strains and all that shit to know he didn’t want to risk going into this blind.

But he’s not blind now. He even practiced the knots with one of Steve’s old ties. It’s almost muscle memory already, which means he gets to spend less attention on the silk itself and more on the way Steve’s breathing has gotten faster, almost panting, the way his back shines in the low light, maybe damp from his shower or just that affected already.

Billy finishes the knots with a tug, and then works Steve’s hands back and forth, checking that it’s not too tight, that he can still move a little. Before he forgets, Billy stretches across the bed to reach his nightstand and searches in the drawer for the scissors he hid there the other day, just in case.

Steve doesn’t seem to notice the delay. When Billy slides off the bed and heads to the other side, where Steve’s facing, his eyes are already glazed, two spots of pink bright on his cheeks, and his cock looks painfully hard, curved up towards his stomach, red and dripping. The sight sends a shock of desire down Billy’s spine, and he feels his own dick throb in his shorts.

He kneels by the bed and gets his hands around Steve’s hips to drag him a closer, so he’s sitting right on the edge, his feet on the floor. When he barely reacts to that, Billy presses his thumbs, hard, into Steve’s skin, let’s his nails dig in a little.

“Stevie,” says Billy. “You with me, sweetheart?”

Steve nods slowly, but it takes his eyes a second or two to focus. Billy presses harder, even shakes him a little to help him come back. “I need words from you right now, baby. Tell me you’re with me.”

“I’m with you,” Steve rasps, his voice shot with need and it tapers off into a whine. He shifts and stretches his arms, testing the knots and panting harder when they don’t give. “Please,” he begs. “Please, Billy.”

Billy doesn’t know what Steve’s asking for exactly, but he knows what _he_ has in mind, and that’s what Steve’s gonna get. He smooths his hands over Steve thighs and settles more onto his knees, his mouth watering a little as he eyes Steve’s dick, so wet already.

“I got you,” Billy murmurs. “I’m gonna give you what you need, baby.”

Steve gasps and trembles at the first, light touch of Billy’s tongue at his head, and Billy tightens his grip on Steve’s sides, a silent demand to be still. Steve pants and whines but he listens, like always, so, _so_ good for Billy.

Billy had plans to drag this out, make Steve beg for it till he cried, but he didn’t count on Steve getting this hazy this fast, didn’t know the tie would get him this close. Steve trusts him, and Billy never pushes him more than he can take—and this is just the first part of their night. So, Billy forgoes his usual teasing and swallows Steve down, sinking till the head of his dick hits the back of Billy’s throat. He’s always loved this part, loves the heat and the weight of Steve in his mouth, the taste of him, the way he fills him up and makes hard to breathe. He just stays there for a moment, to enjoy it and to test Steve a little, to see how long he can hold still with the slick vice of Billy’s mouth on him.

But Steve, his good, _good_ boy, cries and begs, pleading Billy’s name like a prayer, but he never moves, never tries to thrust up into that tantalizing heat.

Billy doesn’t make him wait much longer after that. Instead, he uses all the tricks he’s picked up over the last year, the things that make Steve lose it, fast, to finish him off. He tongues at Steve’s slit and bobs his head in quick bursts and sneaks his fingers around to Steve’s hole, pressing _just_ _enough_ for Steve to feel it.

Within seconds, Steve lets out his telltale quiet gasp. Billy pulls off just in time to see Steve come in hot spurts against his own stomach, down his thighs, making such a pretty mess. _Fuck_ , but he looks like a photo right out of one of those big city magazines, his chest flushed and heaving, his eyes half-lidded and black with want.

“So beautiful,” Billy murmurs, kissing up Steve’s legs. “You were so good, baby, so perfect. My perfect, pretty boy.”

Steve shivers at his words and smiles, dopey but still _there_ , not so far gone yet. Billy settles by his side on the bed and checks his hands, moves his fingers to check that he’s still got circulation. His wrists are red and warm, gonna leave a mark for sure, but Billy knows that, for Steve, that’s half the fun, getting to press those marks after and remember how good it was.

When Billy’s satisfied at the state of Steve’s hands, he messages his arms, his shoulders, and kisses at the dip of his neck. “How you feeling, sweetheart?” he checks in.

“So good,” Steve sighs, titling his head to give Billy better access. He hums and leads back into Billy’s chest. “Love you.”

Billy presses kiss after kiss into Steve’s skin, the line of his jaw, that little spot behind his ear. He licks at Steve’s ear to make him laugh, and he does, a breathless giggly that makes Billy’s chest balloon out with joy.

“I love you too, baby.”

They sit like that for a while, Billy letting Steve come down a little, rubbing at his arms, staying close. Eventually, Steve starts to fidget, probably finally feeling the drying cum on all over his legs. Billy’s learned that if he gets up to get stuff to clean him first thing, Steve gets antsy. He’d rather be filthy for a while and have Billy nearby than be left so soon after.

But when he starts to shift, Billy takes the hint and heads to bathroom, comes back in a blink with a wet towel. He kneels at Steve’s feet and cleans him off with gentle strokes, taking the time to kiss his knees, his legs, the soft skin of stomach between each swipe.

By the time Billy’s done, Steve’s cock is already twitching again, chubbing up against his thighs. Billy stands, tossing the dirty towel to the side, and then titling Steve’s head up with light fingers along his jaw.

He swipes a thumb over Steve’s eyebrow. “Still good?”

“Mhm.” Steve blinks slow and pleased, radiating contentment in a way that settles deep and hot in Billy’s gut. His own dick softened somewhat in the twenty-odd minutes they’ve taken to breathe, but the blissed-out peace on Steve’s face is enough to get him hard again.

“Yeah? Up for more?”

Steve is quick to nod, pressing his cheek sweetly into Billy’s touch. He looks at Billy through his lashes, all mock innocence, but the quirk of his mouth gives him away—he knows how he looks right now, knows how it gets to Billy.

“Want you,” he sighs, nuzzling at Billy’s wrist. “Said you’d fuck me.”

Billy quirks an eyebrow, inwardly pleased they’ve come far enough the Steve can say that without blushing. Outwardly, he says, teasing, “ _Did_ I say that?”

“ _Billy_ ,” Steve whines, and that’s more like it. No matter how shy he can get, he’s always been a brat.

“Hmm,” Billy hums considering, like there’s even a possibility that he’s not planning on it. But he leaves Steve wanting it just often enough that there’s real desperation in his eyes when he begs,

“Please? I got ready for you. I’ll be so good, I’ll make you feel _so_ _good_. _Please_.”

“Okay, baby,” Billy says, rubbing a thumb at Steve’s lips. He opens up easy, sucking at Billy’s finger like it’s something else, his eyes falling nearly closed. Billy indulges him for a second more and then pulls back, kneels beside Steve this time to get at the tie. But when he gets his hands under the knots and starts to loosen them, Steve jerks away, makes a wounded kind of noise in this throat.

“No,” he says, making Billy’s hands snap away on instinct. They’ve used safewords as long as Billy’s known what they are, but before that, they just said _no_ or _stop_ and always, _always_ listened. Billy keeps his hands to himself and lowers slowly back to the ground, looking up to meet Steve’s eyes, which are wide and pleading.

“Please? Not yet, just—just while you fuck me, please?”

Billy’s heart settles from its jack-rabbit racing a little as Steve’s meaning sinks it. He’s not hurt—he wants it more, for longer. Even in the face of Steve’s big, begging eyes, Billy hesitates. He’s lost track of exactly how long it’s been since they started, but he doesn’t want to press their luck with something so new.

In the end, though, he sighs silently to himself and reaches to graze his knuckles along Steve’s cheek. “Sure, baby,” he says. Today is for giving Steve everything, after all. “But you have to let me know if it starts to hurt, okay? You feel uncomfortable at all, you let me know. It doesn’t mean we’ll stop altogether. We’ll just change things up so you don’t cramp. Okay? Tell me hear me.”

“I hear you. I _promise_. Thank you, _thank you_. Billy.” Steve’s got this way of sighing Billy’s name like it’s something beautiful, like the taste of it is sweet on his tongue. Billy leans in and captures that relieved smile, chases after that word like maybe he can taste it too and finally feel like it fits.

Billy’d planned on fucking Steve on his back, the way he loves, holding his hands tight above his head and biting at his neck. But Billy doesn’t want him lying on his arms, so he changes course again. He nips Steve’s lips once, twice, and then pulls back, smirking at the needy way Steve follows, swaying forward as he looks for more.

Billy kneels beside Steve on the bed again in an echo of five minutes ago, except this time instead of trying to untie Steve’s hands, he just gets a good grip on Steve’s arms. “Up,” Billy says, soft but firm. “On your knees.”

It’s awkward, but with Steve’s hands still bound, it’s sort of impossible for him to be graceful, even if he had that in him to start. But with Billy beside him, Steve’s able to tilt and scooch and flail only a little, until he’s mirroring Billy, kneeling on the mattress and facing him.

Billy hums, pleased, and then scooches himself, up the bed, until he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. He gestures at Steve, that stupid hand thing he’s always doing at Billy.

“C’mere,” he rasps, and then tries not to laugh as Steve hurries a little too quickly to comply and falls flat on his face. It’s a lost cause, though, because Steve’s dumb donkey laugh fills the room even muffled as he is by the comforter, and then Billy’s snickers turn into full, lung bursting laughs, too.

It’s a minute or two before Steve rolls over, still gasping and shaking with the aftershocks of his joy. Finally, instead of getting up on his knees again, he just rolls sideways, once, twice, until he’s inches from Billy, and then he gets up again, grinning like a fucking winner, like that was some kind of genius master plan.

Billy can’t help it, he laughs again, shaking his head at this boy—so stupid, and all his. “Idiot,” Billy says, packed with affection because he just can’t help it. “ _God_ , I fucking love you.”

Steve’s grin gets smaller, softer, as he finally makes it to Billy’s lap. He settles on Billy’s thighs and leans forward to rests their heads together.

“Just pretend it didn’t happen,” he says, like that has a snowball's chance in hell of happening.

“No fucking way,” says Billy, just as soft, his cheeks hurting from the smile he knows his splitting his face in two.

Steve groans, but shifts closer, his cheek against Billy’s, his ass moving to settle more firmly in Billy’s laps.

Billy kisses at Steve’s neck as he gets a hard grip on Steve’s hips, pulling him closer still, until their dicks slide together, trapped in the tight space between them. Despite the calm before, and the laughter after that, they’re both hard again, Steve already dripping—he’s always _so_ _wet_.

When Steve starts making his soft, needy sounds, Billy reaches one hand from Steve’s hips into his hair, pulls him back hard, to make him gasp, and then swallows the sound, kissing him hotter and rougher than usual. He bites at Steve’s lips, fucks his mouth with his tongue. Soon, Steve’s jerking in Billy’s lap, trying to get more friction, but this isn’t supposed to be a repeat of earlier, so Billy pulls back and stills him with an iron grip.

“Enough of that,” he demands, rasping but firm. He keeps one hand firm on Steve’s side and reaches with the other to dig around in the side table, coming back soon enough with the lube. Steve’s nearly trembling with anticipation, and he doesn’t need to be told to sit up. He gets on his knees, his shoulders rolling, tugging at the knots.

Billy slicks his fingers and settles them just shy of Steve’s hole, needing to check one last time before they get lost in this. “Still okay?”

“Mhm,” Steve hums, still pulling. It’s only when Steve’s eyes flutter open that Billy realizes how rhythmic his struggling’s been. “Like it,” he says, his voice cloudy as he starts to drift again. “Feels good.”

“Good,” Billy murmurs. He circles Steve’s hole with one finger, waits till his breaths are coming in hot pants against Billy’s neck, then he presses in, _slow_ , reveling in the heat of him. Steve’s still open from whatever prep he did in the shower, so it’s not long before Billy’s working in a second.

Steve whines, high and needy, and tries to fuck back on Billy’s fingers, but he knows better than that, so Billy pulls them out in one, quick movement. Steve gasps at the change, and when he presses his face into Billy’s shoulder, Billy can feel the extra damp that means he’s crying already.

“Please,” he begs, mindless with want. “Please, please, Billy, don’t stop, please.”

“You’ll take what I give you,” Billy rumbles. “You get too greedy, I’ll take care of myself, and you can go to bed like this.”

“No, no, I’m _good_ , I’ll be so, _so_ good, please, _please_.” He’s really crying now, his breath hitching as he buries his face in Billy’s skin like he’s trying to get inside him. Billy reaches to thread his non-slicked fingers through Steve’s damp hair, kissing at the nearest part of him he can reach, the side of his neck.

“I know you are, sweetheart,” Billy murmurs, his own voice thick. “You are good, my good boy. So, be good for me a little bit longer. I know what you need, baby, I’m going to give it to you. Gotta trust me.”

“Trust you,” Steve echoes, barely a whisper. “Trust you always, Billy. _Love_ you.”

“I love you too, Stevie.”

Billy doesn’t bother working him back open slowly, just sinks two fingers to the knuckle, Steve’s gasp like music to his ears. He gets a third in for a moment, but Steve’s whines have reached a frantic pitch that means he close, and Billy wants to be inside him when he comes, knows Steve wants that too.

This time, when he pulls his fingers out, he goes slow, kissing at Steve’s skin so he knows it’s not another rebuke. His dick is already drenched from his own precum and from Steve, dripping all over him, so Billy doesn’t bother to reach for the slick again before he’s lining up with Steve’s hole, clenching and needy.

Billy rests the head just against him, can’t help teasing one more time. “Need this so bad, don’t you, sweetheart? Need to be filled up.”

Steve sobs in wordless agreement. It’s taking everything in him, Billy knows, not to sink down, to _take_ when what he wants is _so_ close. But he stays still, trembling with the effort. He’s so _perfect_ , tries _so_ hard, for _Billy_ , like he’s worth that kind of loyalty.

“I know you do, baby,” Billy answers for him. “I always give you what you need.”

He guides himself into Steve’s tight heat with one hand, using the other to grip Steve’s hip, encouraging him down. Steve takes the gesture as the permission it is, and _sits,_ sinking on Billy’s dick too fast, too hard. But Steve doesn’t seem to mind, just gasps into Billy’s neck, shakes in his hold, murmuring, “Billy, Billy, Billy,” under his breath.

Another day, Billy would make him do the work, make him _really_ take what he needs, but he’s so strung out already, so hazy from the knots around his wrists. More than anything, Billy wants to take care of him today, so he plants his feet flat on the bed, grips Steve’s hips tight, and fucks up into him, in hard, quick thrusts.

It doesn’t take long for Steve to start gasping again, tears dripping down his flushed cheeks as he matches Billy’s rhythm. All told, it’s probably only five minutes before Steve’s coming for the third time, this time painting Billy’s chest. He slumps forward, and with no hands to catch his fall, Billy grunts at the impact, remembering just in time to get his arms around Steve to ease his fall. He settles against Billy, a hot, panting mess, still making these quiet whimpers that speak to how far away he is.

“So good,” Billy says on instinct, trying to hold back until he can get a read on where Steve’s mind’s at. But with Steve clenching around him, it takes every bit of willpower he has not to thrust up into that heat. “You’re so good, baby. You did so well, I’m proud of you. I love you so much.”

Steve hums at the praise, but he surprises Billy by pulling back. He sits more fully on Billy’s dick, his eyes still hazy but his intention clear. “Want it,” he rasps, rocking in place, pulling again at his arms. “Said you’d fill me. _Want_ it.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Billy gasps. Instead of continuing the rapid pace from before, he sits up too, settles Steve in his lap, and just rocks them like that, slow and deep. He hasn’t come all night, so it’s only a minute or two more before he’s making good on his promise, filling Steve’s tight hole with cum. Steve gasps when he feels it, and Billy can tell he’s smiling from where his face is pressed to Billy’s neck.

They sit like that, panting together, until Billy stops seeing stars. Then he pulls back and checks Steve’s face, thumbing the tear tracks from his red cheeks. Steve’s eyes, when they blink open, are still blown, dark and blissed-out. If Billy didn’t know better, he’d think Steve was blazed, higher than a kite. But he does know better. This is just what Steve’s like when he’s treated right, when he gets the love he deserves.

Billy presses the softest kisses to Steve’s face, at least ten, at least twenty. “I love you so much, my pretty boy. You were so good. Made me feel so good.” When Steve smiles at that, it’s like the sun coming out on the first warm, summer day.

In a minute, Billy will pull out of him, slow and careful, will lay Steve down with him and hold him close. He’ll untie Steve’s arms and message out the knots that have no-doubt gathered in his shoulders. He’ll tell him he’s perfect and beautiful and so, so good, until he passes out, exhausted. Billy will clean him up with gentle hand and wrap him in blankets despite the heat. He’ll curl around him, all night long, and in the morning, they’ll shower together, stealing kisses in the hot steam.

For now, Billy presses two fingers to Steve’s pretty smile and says, “I love you, sweetheart." Steve kisses his fingers and looks at him with big, dewy eyes, saying, _I love you, too_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't come @ me abt inaccuracies, I just wrote this in a ten hour sitting and I do not have sex. These are choices.
> 
> I'll probably edit this for sp. mistakes in the morning, but wanted to get it out to y'all tonight. Let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come talk to me about this fic or anything else! I'm jaybugwrites on tumblr, and I love suggestions and comments, especially on fics that aren't done ;)


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